ANGEL I woke to soreness. Everything stung. My thighs ached with a deep, satisfying burn. There were hickeys on my neck, my shoulders, and stubble marks on my breasts that I could feel every time I shifted against the sheets. I loved it. Every ache, every sting, every delicious reminder of what we’d done. I could still feel Vincent inside me—a phantom fullness, a pleasant emptiness that throbbed with the memory of being stretched, filled, claimed. My body was no longer just my own. It belonged to him now. Completely. Irrevocably. Morning light streamed through the curtains. Vincent was still sleeping beside me, one arm thrown possessively across my waist even in unconsciousness like he couldn’t bear to let me go, even in dreams. I turned my head to study his face. He looked younger in sleep. More peaceful. The constant tension he carried—the weight of his empire, the darkness that lurked behind his eyes—was smoothed away. In its place was something almost boyish. I reached
Read more