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Trying to get to sleep that night, I thought about Declan arriving back. Instinctively, I pushed the middle pillows off the bed.

Sprawling across the bed, my bare legs glided over the indent where his body had been.

Something about him made me want to disrupt his cool, ruffle that calm, and I imagined what could happen if we weren’t working on this case.

Rolling around in this bed, locked in a kiss, our hips rocking into each other, flesh tingling, aching, buzzing.

Him, sinking under the covers, his scruff trailing down my body, along with his tongue.

Licking my inner thigh. Stroking his fingers upward, upward…

Bouncing out of bed, I shaved my legs, rubbed oil into every inch of skin, and flossed and gargled with mouthwash, just because I had the time. No, it was because I was in a lust haze after that kiss and wanted to continue where we had left off. Which couldn’t happen.

I woke to sunlight streaming in and the sound of a shower.

Declan emerged in his boxers, but bare-chested, without his usual T-shirt.

We were in a small room, soon to be in one bed, and I would be so, so close to his muscled arms and that chiseled chest. But I couldn’t reach out and touch him.

As he slid into bed, I could smell the soap on his skin, his shampoo, and minty toothpaste.

He turned his freshly shaved face to mine. And groaned.

“I thought I was going to die,” he grated out. “Then I wished I would die. Sorry, can you do the morning stuff without me?” He turned away from me. “I… have… to… sleep.”

By the end of the sentence, he was out.