“That was real. No more lessons.”
Her breath catches.
I ease out of her carefully, clean her with a warm cloth from the bathroom, then pull her against me under the sheets. She curls into my chest like she belongs there.
Her fingers rest over my heart.
I stare into the dark suite, listening to the mountains settle outside the windows and the woman in my arms drift toward sleep.
She chose me, and I am never giving her a reason to regret it.
Chapter 8
Natalie
Iwake up before the sun because my body has decided sleep is less important than emotional damage.
For one soft, floating second, I think I am still dreaming.
It would explain the sheets. The quiet. The faint smell of cedar and expensive soap. The enormous bed. The fact that I am naked in a presidential suite with a very specific ache between my thighs and a memory reel in my head that should probably require a warning label.
Then the arm around my waist tightens.
Jordan.
Heat crawls up my neck.
Yes, I am naked. He is naked.
This feels like important information my body should have prepared me for before waking up pressed against him.
His chest is against my back, warm and hard. One heavy thigh is tangled with mine beneath the sheets. His hand is spread low on my stomach, possessive even in sleep, like some part of him decided I might wander off and needed securing.
I should move carefully.
I do not.
I shift a little, trying to ease my hip away from the ache between my thighs, and my backside brushes against him.
Jordan goes still behind me.
Fully still.
The arm around my waist tightens again, and something thick and hard presses against me.
My breath catches.
His voice comes rough with sleep against the back of my neck. “Natalie.”
That single word should not make my thighs press together.
It does.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I whisper.
“You moved.”
“I am allowed to move.”
