Clare awoke to the smell of coffee coming from the street and the taste of Pedro still between her legs.

She had slept naked, amidst crumpled sheets and the suffocating heat of the Madrid summer. The candle had melted to the end on the dresser, leaving a trail of hardened wax that seemed like a whisper of what had happened there. Or rather: of what hadn't happened.

Pedro hadn't kissed her. Pedro had almost kissed her. And she had almost begged for it.

The morning passed at a strange ...