I wake up to familiar warmth and comfort, Desmond's arm draped around my waist, his chest rising and falling against my back in a rhythm I find embarrassingly soothing. The hospital room is quiet, and sunlight seeps through the tall curtains of the private presidential suite, casting soft gold over the stark white sheets tangled messily around us.
As if to haunt me, memories from last night flood my mind and I blush. We didn't just sleep. We had sex, and Desmond devoured me like never before—even though he was supposed to be weak from the fever. I think I'm still sore down there, and everywhere around my body is covered in bite marks—even my hands.
