WHEN KIERAN LEFT, the silence he left behind felt suffocating, pierced only by the fire's hiss and the shaky rhythm of Mailah's breathing.
She remained curled on the chaise, acutely aware of every sensation coursing through her body—the lingering heat from the dream feeding, the way her skin seemed to hum, the embarrassing dampness between her thighs that she prayed Grayson couldn't detect.
But of course he could. His supernatural senses could probably pick up every racing heartbeat, every shallow breath that betrayed her arousal.
"Mailah," Grayson's voice was rough, strained with his own barely controlled desire. He knelt beside the chaise, his hands hovering uncertainly as if he wanted to comfort her but didn't trust himself to touch. "I'm sorry. I should never have let him—"
"Don't apologize," she interrupted, finally meeting his eyes.
The intensity she saw there made her breath catch.
