The morning light filtered through the gaps in the curtains, golden, lazy. The room still reeked of sex—rumpled sheets, the smell of the previous night mingled with Jaston's woody cologne. Hellen's body ached deliciously: thighs throbbing, throat dry, skin sensitive. She woke with the feeling of being watched.

And she was.

Jaston was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing only black boxer briefs, holding a coffee mug. His eyes were fixed on her as if he hadn't slept—or as if he was ...