Morning light poured through the sheer curtains like liquid gold, bathing the room in a warm, honeyed haze.
Priya stirred, lashes fluttering open.
For a moment she just blinked at the familiar ceiling, the silk sheets tangled low around her hips, the heavy weight of a muscled arm draped possessively across her waist. Then memory slammed into her—Peter's mouth, his hands, the way he'd ruined her five separate times until she'd blacked out.
She turned her head on the pillow. He was still there, eyes closed, black lashes fanned against sharp cheekbones, lips parted just enough to show a hint of white teeth. The morning light carved him like a statue—jaw cut from marble, bronze skin glowing, that impossible fallen-angel beauty somehow even more devastating in sleep.
