Chris woke to the unmistakable ache of being thoroughly ruined.
The sheets felt too soft. The light filtering through the East Wing's tall windows was far too forgiving. And the ache in his hips, his spine, and the back of his throat left absolutely no room for denial.
He groaned.
The sound wasn't dramatic; it was the honest, low rasp of someone whose body had been worked to its limit and then coaxed further, just because the man responsible didn't want to stop.
The bed was large, imperial by design, and reinforced because apparently Dax didn't do anything at half capacity. Chris lay on his stomach, stretched across it like discarded treasure, one arm flung lazily across the pillow, his mouth dry and every inch of his skin marked with proof of what had happened.
And gods, it had happened.
