His face swims through the darkness. Of course it does. I’d normally try to force myself to revert to one of my old reliables—I mean, whomst among us hasn’t borrowed Jason Momoa to get where she needs to go, right?—but given how insane this whole day has been, I just let it happen. Stealing Sasha for my own selfish pleasure kinda feels like yet another tally in the win column for me, anyway.
So he’s there, hovering in the darkness. I reach out an imaginary hand and feel Sasha’s imaginary stubble beneath my fingertips. I trace the line of his jaw, dropping to his throat, his collarbone, the valley between his pecs.
In my mind’s eye, he’s exactly as I left him: chewing the inside of his cheek, shirt unbuttoned, tie askew, skin feverish everywhere I touch.
Who, me? I taunt back in my head.
