Sunlight crept through the heavy curtains in slow, gold bars, warm enough to catch on the carved edges of the ceiling and the deep blue rugs. For a blissful heartbeat, Chris thought he was alone. The mattress under him was vast, the sheets soft and cool; he'd gone to sleep last night convinced he'd claimed one whole side for himself.
Then he shifted and something shifted with him.
A solid arm tightened across his waist, pulling him back into heat. A thigh was already hooked behind his knees, locking him in place. Chris blinked, disoriented, before the scent hit him, dark spice and rum, low in his lungs.
'No.'
He wriggled experimentally, trying to slide forward out of the grip. The arm didn't even twitch. It was like pressing against a column of stone.
'C'mooon, mooove.' Chris prayed silently.
