The credits of the movie rolled, casting the room in a silent, blueish light. Linda's breathing had evened out into the soft, deep rhythms of sleep, her body a warm, trusting weight against his chest. The war she'd been waging within herself had finally been lost to exhaustion.
Peter moved with a predator's silence, shifting her carefully. He lifted her into his arms as if she weighed nothing.
She was all silk and softness, her head lolling trustingly against his shoulder. A scent of shampoo and her own unique, sleep-warmed skin filled his senses—a fragrance of home, and now, of something infinitely more tantalizing.
He carried her up the grand staircase to the master suite, her room a mirror of his own in size and luxury. The moon cast pale stripes across the vast bed. He laid her down with a reverence that felt both sacred and profane, pulling the duvet over her.
