By the time I shut off the water, my fingertips are pruned and my thoughts are no clearer than when I started. I grab a towel from a heated rack—of course Alex would have heated towel racks—and dry off, wincing at the tenderness between my legs. The mirror has fogged over, hiding my reflection, which feels like a small mercy.
My clothes from last night are nowhere to be found. Not in the bathroom, not in the bedroom. Did Alex take them? The thought of him gathering my things while I slept, maybe even taking them to be washed, makes something flutter in my chest.
I open his massive walk-in closet, feeling like an intruder despite everything we shared last night. It’s meticulouslyorganized—suits in one section, casual clothes in another, shoes lined up along the bottom. I grab the first things I find that look comfortable: a soft gray t-shirt that hangs loose on my smaller frame and a pair of black sweatpants I have to roll at the waist to keep from tripping over. The clothes smell like him—clean laundry with an undertone of that expensive cologne. I bring the collar of the shirt to my nose, inhaling deeply, embarrassed by how much comfort I take from his scent.
Voices drift through the closed bedroom door, muffled but distinct enough to recognize Mark’s boisterous laugh and Kayla’s higher pitch. They’re still here. All of them. The thought of facing our friends after what they undoubtedly heard last night makes heat rush to my face.
“Fuck,” I mutter, scrubbing a hand through my damp hair. I can’t hide in Alex’s bedroom forever. And I need coffee. Desperately.
I follow the scent of brewing coffee through the penthouse, each step taking me closer to the voices that grow louder as I approach. The soft padding of my bare feet on the hardwood is drowned out by the animated conversation ahead. I pause at the threshold of the kitchen, taking a deep breath before stepping into view.
The conversation stops abruptly. Six heads turn in my direction, six pairs of eyes taking in my appearance, including the visible marks on my neck that I didn’t even try to hide. I freeze under their collective gaze, suddenly feeling like I’m back on stage at The Siren, being assessed and evaluated.
Alex stands at the massive island in the center of the kitchen, coffee mug in hand, looking unfairly perfect in sweatpants and a black t-shirt that clings to his chest. He hasn’t bothered to hide the scratch marks I left on his forearms, though, or the bitemark just visible at the edge of his collar.
“Morning,” he says, his voice rumbling low in a way that sends a shiver down my spine. He doesn’t look uncertain or regretful. His eyes drink me in, lingering on the places where his clothes are too big on me, a possessive gleam in his gaze.
He reaches for another mug from the cabinet, filling it with coffee before adding a splash of milk and two sugars.
“Coffee,” he says, holding out the mug to me.
I cross the kitchen to take it, hyperaware of everyone watching us. Our fingers brush as I accept the mug, and it’s ridiculous how that small contact affects me after everything we did last night.
“Thanks,” I murmur, taking a long sip to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes.
The kitchen is as absurdly luxurious as the rest of the apartment—gleaming stainless steel appliances, marble countertops, and custom cabinets. My friends look out of place here, but they seem comfortable enough, lounging around the breakfast table littered with plates of half-eaten food.
“We could have told what happened between you two even if we hadn’t heard anything,” Mark says, breaking the tense silence with his typical lack of filter. He gestures at my appearance with a piece of toast.
“But we heard a lot,” Ronan adds with a smirk.
My face burns as I hide behind my coffee mug. “Sorry about that.”
“I’m not,” Alex says, and before I can process his words, his arm slides around my waist, pulling me against his side. I nearly spill my coffee at the unexpected contact. He plants a kiss on my temple, as casual as if we’ve been doing this for years. “Not even a little bit sorry.”
Kayla lets out a dramatic sigh. “That’s actually hot as fuck.”
“Inappropriate,” Rina tells her, but she’s fighting a smile.
Ed raises his coffee in a mock toast. “To Alex finally getting what he’s been obsessing over for weeks.”
“Weeks?” I look up at Alex.
His arm tightens around my waist. “More like years, really.” His voice drops lower, meant just for me. “You were always mine, remember?”
The possessiveness in his tone should bother me, but I lean into him, letting myself be claimed, at least for this moment.
“Gross,” Mark says cheerfully. “You guys are already that couple. I’m gonna need more coffee to deal with this.”
The conversation shifts, moving away from Alex and me to complaints about hangovers and plans for the day. Alex guides me to the breakfast table, keeping me close as he piles a plate with food—scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, fresh fruit that someone must have delivered this morning.
“Eat,” he says, setting the plate in front of me.
I pick up a fork, smirking up at him. “Bossy.”
His lips curl into a smile that makes my stomach flip. “You weren’t complaining about that last night,” he whispers.
“Jesus, get a room,” Rina groans.
