Dante got out of the bed, the sunlight slanting across his bare chest, casting golden shadows along his sharp collarbones. His hand reached for Anastasia without hesitation, and with that same commanding authority he always wore like a crown, he scooped her into his arms.
"Let's get ourselves bathed," he muttered, his voice still deep and hoarse from their earlier exertions.
Anastasia instinctively curled into him, the soreness between her thighs throbbing like a silent echo. Her cheek brushed against his chest as he walked with her through the warm corridor into the en-suite bathroom. It smelled faintly of cedarwood and clean linen, and everything gleamed under the ambient light from the chandelier above.
