Waking up was a slow, hazy process of sensory overload.
First, the smell, sandalwood and expensive soap. Then, the weight, a heavy, possessive arm draped across my waist, pinning me to the mattress. Finally, the heat, the broad, solid chest pressed against my back.
The memories of yesterday rushed in like a tidal wave. The lace, the thong, the way he had whispered "Good girl" until I'd forgotten my own name.
I felt the familiar heat of a blush creeping up my neck. After my private shower, I had practically bolted for my side of the bed and pretended to be dead to the world.
I had been avoiding his gaze since the moment we had finished. How was I supposed to look at the man who had seen every inch of me?
Quietly, I tried to lift his arm, inching toward the edge of the bed. I just needed to get to the dressing room, put on a power suit, and pretend I was a professional junior consultant again.
