The penthouse was dark when Cyrus returned.

He dropped his keys onto the console with a metallic clatter, his body weighed down by exhaustion and something far heavier — guilt, longing, need.

The city lights filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting silver streaks across the room.

And then he saw her.

Camilla was standing by the window, wrapped in one of his shirts, the hem brushing the tops of her bare thighs. Her hair was loose, tumbling over her shoulders like ink, her silhouette a quiet, devastating invitation.

She was beautiful and looked like fine sex. So fuckable.

Something in his chest cracked wide open.

He was moving before he...