For the first time in months—maybe years—Lanse realized he couldn't separate desire from memory, past from present. And somehow, absurdly, it was all Tess's fault. He hated Karren. And yet, in that twisted, aching way, he still remembered why forgetting her had been impossible.
Tess's alarm rang earlier than he usually woke. Not that it mattered—his eyes had been open all night. Hers were rested; his burned red from hours of sleepless torment.
Training was soon. He didn't care if she looked or not—he threw the sheet aside and stood, naked, tugging on his pants without hesitation.
"Lanse?" Tess gasped, spinning her head away, though temptation flickered in the corner of her gaze.
He strode to the door bare-chested, muscles taut, the slide of the door opening. Just before he left, she risked a look. A glimpse of his back—broad, perfect, agonizing.
