DOMINIC
The room smelled like her. Like sex and sweat and Lena.
I couldn't stop touching her. I wouldn't.
She lay sprawled beneath me, flushed and trembling, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks. She looked wrecked. Mine.
I dragged the backs of my fingers down her arm, slow, worshipful, feeling the goosebumps rise under my touch. She shivered, and I could feel it—how her body still responded to me, how the bond between us thrummed like a living thing, raw and fragile and unbreakable.
I pressed my mouth to her bare shoulder, breathing her in, kissing the spot where her neck met her collarbone, where my mark would go if I let my instincts win.
"You feel so good," I murmured, my voice wrecked and rough against her skin. I kissed lower, tasting the salt of her sweat. "You were made for me, Lena."
