It started with a kiss in the kitchen.
And now, here she was—half-naked on his bed, her legs tangled with Adrian’s, her body still humming from the second time he’d taken her that night. His room was dark, lit only by the warm glow of the bedside lamp and the golden city haze filtering through the windows.
His fingers traced idle circles on her thigh as she lay against his chest, heartbeat gradually slowing.
“I’m not sorry,” she whispered.
He didn’t answer right away. His hand stilled, then started again, softer now.
“Neither am I,” he finally said, voice low and hoarse. “But that doesn’t make this any less dangerous.”
She tilted her head up, brushing her lips across his collarbone. “You regret it?”
“No,” he growled. “That’s the problem. I should. I should feel guilty for f*****g yo
