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In sleep, she tips her head back, nuzzling closer toward my jaw. It exposes the already closed-over wound at her throat, and I try not to focus on that, either.

Try, and fail.

With a feather-light touch, I skim my fingers from where they’re curled around her waist, up her side, over the gentle curve of her shoulder, and higher.

I shouldn’t. I should leave this well enough alone and let her rest, ignore the instinct coursing through me that wants to touch, to feel, to assure myself it’s no illusion she wears my mark.

The first time was a misguided attempt to keep up appearances and fool those who would have had eyes on us in Philippe’s club. It was a ruse, an excuse, something easily brushed aside.

But this? Tonight?

Ophelia asked for this. She was as wild for it as I was, and there is nothing I can do now to keep myself from the indulgence of feeling the evidence of that need.

As soon as my finger ghosts over the first of her two vivid wounds, Ophelia stirs.

My body locks with tension as I wait for her to wake, ask me what the hell I’m doing, crawl out of bed, and leave me here alone.

But she doesn’t. Ophelia merely makes a low sound in the back of her throat—something my blood-addled mind almost wants to believe is pleasure—and instinctively arches her neck even further. She presses into me, languid and eager in her unconscious want.

I barely bite back my curse, and can do nothing to stop myself from growing hard, though I’m still fully clothed beneath the sheets.

Her response sends my mind reeling down dark, forbidden alleyways, to doors of wants and dreams that are best left locked and barred. For her sake. For mine. I can’t indulge any of this, not for a single second.

But even though I draw my hand away and do my best to breathe deep and expel the instinct coursing through me, I can’t shake it completely.

I was a little afraid of you.

Ophelia’s softly spoken confession sits like a lead weight in the bottom of my stomach.

It draws up memories not only of that night on the rooftop, but of all the other reasons this thing between us never would have worked out. Neverwillwork out.

Perhaps she was right to be afraid of me then, and perhaps I pushed further than I should have tonight.

Perhaps it’s wrong of me to be here, laying beside her when she’s naked and vulnerable and will no doubt come to regret what we shared in the stark light of day.

Perhaps it was wrong of me to bite her, touch her, let things go as far as they did.

Wracked by that guilt, I shift away from her, slowly moving to disentangle her limbs from mine.

“Stay.”

Ophelia’s sleepy murmur freezes my every muscle and bone, it stops my marble heart beating in my chest and makes my lungs feel like they’ve shrunk down to useless, withered husks.

She doesn’t even open her eyes as she settles back against me, scooting over and holding more tightly to halt my retreat. Her breathing evens out, and her heart beats a slow, steady rhythm I can feel in every place we’re touching.

Gods above.

I suppose I can stay.

I make myself comfortable on the bed.Mybed, though she doesn’t need to know that.

There’s very little in the room by way of personal effects or warm touches to distinguish it from any other rooms in the house. And since I didn’t particularly care to examine whatever instinct made me bring her here rather than one of the guest rooms, it didn’t seem worth mentioning.

It also isn’t something I care to dwell on now, so I push the thoughts aside and relax into the unexpected splendor of the moment.

The soft down of the pillows and the wonderful weight of the woman sprawled across me are an inexorable draw towards oblivion. Lids heavy, body relaxed, I let myself drift into a gentle doze.

It’s foolish, reckless, but it’s also something I’m not powerful enough to resist as my eyes slide shut and weary tension leeches from every inch of me.