The cold morning light streams through the penthouse, pale, crisp, and clean against the glass, but the hearth in the living room is still throwing out a deep, steady warmth.
I shift beneath the heavy blanket, a soft, contented sigh escaping my lips as the cool morning air touches my bare shoulders.
Turning onto my side, I rest my cheek on my hand.
Across the open space of the penthouse, Locke is moving around the kitchen.
He’s bare-chested, wearing only a pair of boxer shorts that ride low on his hips.
The morning light carves out every sharp, dangerous angle of his back, highlighting the thick, ropy muscle beneath his skin and the faint, pale lines of old scars running along his ribs.
I lie there on the rug for a long moment, letting myself simply admire the sight of him.
The
