I started to make my way to the bathroom but caught my reflection in the mirror over the bedroom vanity.

Wow. Freshly f**ked. That was definitely how I looked.

Leaning in, I examined the small red scrapes that were scattered along my neck, shoulders, br**sts, and stomach. A small bite mark was visible on the underside of my left breast, a hickey on my shoulder. Glancing down, I ran my fingers along the red marks on my inner thigh. My ni**les hardened as I recalled the feeling of his unshaven face brushing along my skin.

My hair was a wild and tangled mess, and I bit my lip as I remembered his hands twisted in it. The way he pulled me first into his kiss and then onto his c**k . . .

Not helping.

I was jolted out of my thoughts by a voice thick with sleep. “Awake and freaking out already?”

Turning, I caught a glimpse of his naked body as he twisted in the sheets and sat up before pulling them over his hips and leaving his torso bare. I didn’t think I would ever get tired of looking at—and feeling—his broad, muscular chest, washboard abs, and tantalizing happy trail that led to the most gloriously hung man ever seen. When my eyes—finally—reached his face, I scowled at his lopsided grin.

“Caught you looking,” he murmured, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

I wasn’t sure whether to smile or roll my eyes. Seeing him rumpled and vulnerable in his half-awake state was disorienting. We never bothered to close the heaviest drapes last night, and now sunlight streamed in, blindingly bright against the tangle of white linens. He looked so different—still my ass**le boss, but also someone else now: a man, in my bed, looking like he was ready for round . . . four? Five? I couldn’t keep track.

And as his eyes raked over every inch of me, I remembered that I too was completely naked. In this moment, his expression was as intense as his touch. I briefly wondered, if he continued to look at me like that, would my skin ignite? Would I feel his touch on my flesh the same as when he put his hands on me?

I fixed my expression into something I hoped camouflaged that I was mentally cataloging every inch of his skin and bent over to retrieve his white undershirt off the floor. It had been in front of the air conditioner all night and was a little cold but, thankfully, mostly dry. When I slipped the soft cotton over my head, I inhaled the sagey scent of his skin and then emerged, catching his dark stare.

His tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Come here,” he growled quietly.

I moved to the bed, intending to sit beside him, but he pulled me so I straddled his thighs, and said, “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

He wanted me to condense a million thoughts into a single sentence? The man was insane.

So I opened my mouth and let the first thought out: “You said you haven’t been with anyone since we were first . . . together.” I stared at his collarbone so I wouldn’t have to look him in the eye. “Is that true?”

Finally, I looked up.

He nodded and slipped his fingers beneath the undershirt, running his hands slowly from my hips to my waist.

“Why?” I asked.

He closed his eyes, shook his head once. “I haven’t wanted anyone else.”

I wasn’t sure how to interpret that. Did he mean he hadn’t met anyone he wanted but was open to it? “Are you usually monogamous if you’re sleeping with someone?”

He shrugged. “If that’s the expectation.”

Bennett kissed along my shoulder, to my collarbone and up my neck. I reached around him, grabbing the complimentary bottle of water on the nightstand and taking a sip before handing it to him. He finished it in a few long swallows.

“Thirsty?”

“I was. Feeling a little hungry now.”

“Not surprising, we haven’t eaten in like—” I stopped as he wiggled his eyebrows and grinned.

I rolled my eyes, but they fell closed as he leaned forward and kissed me once, sweetly, on the lips.

“Is monogamy the expectation here?” I asked.

“After what happened last night, I think you need to tell me.”

I didn’t know how to answer that. I wasn’t even sure I could be with him like this, let alone be monogamous about it. The idea of how that would work made my head spin. Would we actually be . . . friendly? Would he say, “Good morning,” and mean it? Would he feel safe criticizing my work?

He spread his fingers over my lower back, pressing me into his side and pulling me out of my rambling thoughts. “Never take this off,” he whispered.

“Deal.” I leaned back to give his mouth better access to my throat. “I’ll wear this and nothing else down to the poster session this morning.”