The city glittered forty floors below us, a restless sea of gold and red, but inside the penthouse the only light came from the fireplace and the low amber sconces Theo always left on for me.
I stood at the window in nothing but his black dress shirt, sleeves rolled to my elbows, hem brushing mid-thigh. The silk still carried the heat of his body and the faint trace of his cologne (cedar, smoke, something darker). Between my legs I was swollen, tender, sticky with him. Every shift of my hips reminded me how many times he had filled me tonight: slow on the rug, rough against the hallway mirror, desperate in the shower until the water ran cold.
I pressed my palm to the cool glass and felt the low throb of him still inside me, like my body refused to let a single drop go.
Behind me the mattress creaked. Bare feet on marble. Then his heat at my back, arms sliding around my waist, one large hand splaying possessively over the faint curve of my stomach.
