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It was done. We’d agreed that we would never do it again, so that was it. And, I mean, there was no denying that we’d made the most of it. I’d never had that much sex in a single night in my entire life.

Dan probably had, though. Pre-Rafe. Or, hell, maybe with Rafe. I had no idea. While we’d been at the bar the other night, I’d heard him whisper something to Rafe about fucking a pumpkin, which had made the other ghoul blush deeply, so evidently they got up to some kinky stuff.

Once I was fully dressed, I hovered uncertainly in the middle of the room. Part of me—the part that felt wildly unsettled by what had happened, by falling asleep with him, by seeing him soft and vulnerable like this—wanted to sprint out of the room and leave him here to wake up alone.

But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Stomach shaky with exhaustion and nerves, I bent to collect his clothes and did my best to neatly fold them. They felt expensive, the fabric soft, and I found myself staring down at them before I was suddenly bringing his shirt closer to my nose. I jerked my hands back down when I realised what I was doing and set the pile on the end of the bed.

Glancing at the time on my phone, I saw it was just past 6 a.m. We’d both want to—we both desperately needed to—shower before work, and I knew Crossbody would want to get far away from this place before there was a chance of anyone seeing him.

I quietly walked around the bed and hesitated before sinking down onto the edge, looking at his face, soft and open and vulnerable in a way I’d never seen him before. Not even last night.

I found myself reaching out and gently smoothing his wild hair back from his face, before snatching my hand away when his brows twitched and he made a soft sound.

Clenching my jaw, I attempted to push down everything churning in my gut and rasped, “Crossbody.”

He seemed to almost wake up, nose scrunching a little as his hand slid across the mattress toward me before he settled again with a long exhale.

After a pause, I rested my hand on his shoulder. “Crossbody.”

His eyelashes fluttered, so I whipped my hand away and waited as he began to wake up. His eyes slowly opened, even more hooded than normal, and he rubbed them as he rolled onto his back with a groan.

I forced myself to keep my eyes on his face and not take in the long, elegant lines of his nude body. We were done with that. It was done. No more.

“We should get going,” I said, my voice hoarse. “Get ready for work.”

He blinked a few times, growing more alert, before looking at me, his purple eyes dark in the early morning gloom. His pale mauve skin seemed to glow against the sheets beneath him, and I finally let my gaze flit down his body, just quickly. Just once.

There were bruises from my fingertips on his narrow hips. And his inner thighs.

My gut swooped with a confusing blend of guilt and arousal.

“Are you feeling okay?” I asked awkwardly, then leaned over to grab the half-full water bottle I’d gone to buy at reception last night. The incubus behind the desk had glanced up and smirked but said nothing. It had been beyond obvious what I’d been doing in here.

As Crossbody struggled up onto his arms, trembling lightly, I unscrewed the lid and held out the bottle.

“Here.” Because he hadn’t answered me, I asked again, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” His voice was low and throaty. He took the drink and sipped it, back hunched with exhaustion as he shifted his long legs to cross them. His knee pressed against my hip, making me tense, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“Are you sore?” I asked awkwardly, but I wanted to know. I hadn’t gone easy on him. At all.

He nodded, licking his lips before taking another sip. “Yes.”

My insides tightened. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He lifted his head to look at me, and my chest tightened even more when our eyes met. “It’s what I wanted. Thank you.”

My knee started to bounce anxiously as I picked at the cuff of my sweater. “You don’t need to thank me.”

“Yes, I do.” His breath shuddered out of him as he looked down at the bottle cradled between his hands. “I do.”

Even after everything, I couldn’t really believe how placid he was being. I’d expected him to wake up already tense and defensive and angry. I’d been anticipating it, almost perversely looking forward to it. To yet another furious, heated sparring match with him.

Because this—him acting like this, soft and peaceful and relaxed in my presence—was making me unbearably anxious. Unsettled. It was fucking with my head.

This wasn’t how we were around each other. We hated each other.