Three Months Later.

I still hated him in the mornings.

Especially on the mornings when I woke up sore, marked, and already wet, with Rhys’s heavy arm locked around my waist like he was afraid I might try to leave in my sleep. I never did. That only made me hate him more.

The penthouse no longer felt like his.

It felt like ours — in the most fucked-up, temporary, permanent way possible.

I stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows in one of his white shirts, coffee in hand, watching the city wake up. Behind me I heard the soft sound of bare feet on hardwood. A second later his chest...