Three Months Later.
I still hated him in the mornings.
Especially on the mornings when I woke up sore, marked, and already wet, with Rhys’s heavy arm locked around my waist like he was afraid I might try to leave in my sleep. I never did. That only made me hate him more.
The penthouse no longer felt like his.
It felt like ours — in the most f****d-up, temporary, permanent way possible.
I stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows in one of his white shirts, coffee in hand, watching the city wake up. Behind me I heard the soft sound of bare feet on hardwood. A second later his chest pressed against my back, warm and solid. His mouth found the side of my neck, right over the fading bruise he’d left two nights ago.
“You’re up early,” he murmured, voice still rough from sleep.
“Some of us ha
