Xavier woke up with the kind of dull ache in his hips that only comes from spending a whole night trying to break a bed frame. The room was a disaster—sheets kicked to the floor, pillows scattered, and the smell of sex hanging in the room.
Arlen was sprawled out half on top of him, her skin warm and marked with red handprints where he'd gripped her too hard in the dark.
He didn't move, just watched the way her breath hitched as she started to stir. When she finally opened her eyes, she didn't look embarrassed; she just looked wrecked and satisfied, her gaze landing on his damaged face with a sleepy, lopsided smirk.
"You're still here," she rasped, her voice sounding like it had been shredded by a night of moaning.
"Didn't think I'd let you off that easy, did you?" Xavier grunted, his hand sliding down to her hip to pull her closer. "Also, this is my room."
