Chapter 28 – Alan's Call Shatters Sean's 'Round Two' Plan!
A little past seven in the morning, California's characteristic bright sunlight had already barged through the thin, floral-printed curtains of Rose's bedroom and landed squarely on Sean's closed eyelids.
He frowned, let out a muffled grunt, and instinctively tried to roll away—only to find his body pinned by something.
Consciousness surfaced slowly. First thing he registered was the thick residue of night hanging in the air:
the sweet scent of expensive body wash, the salty tang of sweat, and something more primal, more intimate—the musk of passion cooling after its peak.
Blended together, they formed a heavy, warm atmosphere that filled the room.
Sean pried his heavy lids open; his vision still blurred. The first things he saw were the two lamps on the dark wood nightstand, their cream shades diffusing soft light that wrapped the space in warmth.
Then he located the source of his "confinement"—Rose, clinging to him like a vine.
Her head rested on his bare chest, one smooth leg boldly draped across his abdomen, an arm locked around his waist, fingers unconsciously gripping his side as if to claim ownership even in sleep.
Her breathing was long and even, warm puffs brushing his skin in a posture of complete, possessive dependence.
The orange-and-white floral nightgown—if it could still be called "worn"—had vanished somewhere; only bare skin pressed against him.
Sean's gaze swept across the disheveled room. The morning light exposed last night's passionate traces, stark enough to make him wince.
He glanced at himself and discovered vivid, dark-red bite marks and hickeys scattered across his chest and shoulders like battle scars.
Even his back stung faintly—presumably the work of Rose's nails.
When he tried to shift his numb arm, she let out a displeased sound and coiled even tighter.
Sean adjusted her closer to restore circulation, then reached for his phone on the nightstand: 7:21 a.m.
Still early; Alan would call when he needed to. A man's downfall comes in the arms of a beautiful woman—how true!
Just then Rose's long lashes fluttered; her eyes opened.
Those clear pupils, still foggy with sleep, brightened the instant they focused on Sean, sparkling as if she'd won the lottery.
A lazy, satisfied smile bloomed on her face; her voice, hoarse from last night's exertions, was soft as velvet:
"Morning, Officer Sean."
Her fingertip traced the bite mark on his chest, smugness dancing in her eyes:
"Sleep well?"
Watching her draw circles on his skin, Sean tightened his embrace and grinned:
"You shouldn't provoke a man first thing in the morning."
He was about to start a new "round" when Alan's call interrupted:
"Sorry to bother you, Sean, but I'm heading out soon and Charlie's still not back. Can you take Jake to the field for me?"
In the quiet bedroom every word rang clear; Rose, pressed against his chest, heard everything.
The lazy satisfaction on her face froze, replaced by disappointment; her nose wrinkled in a silent sigh, like a kid whose favorite toy has been taken away.
Sean gave a curt "Got it, be there soon" and hung up. He brushed her cheek with his thumb, half-teasing, half-regretful:
"Looks like our 'round two' is postponed indefinitely, sweetheart."
He rolled out of bed; his tall frame cut a sharp silhouette in the morning light as he strode into the spacious bathroom.
Opening the mirrored cabinet, he paused—it looked like a backup of his own bathroom.
His razor, the toothbrush that had "disappeared" last week (found!), aftershave, all neatly arranged amid her expensive skincare products.
A clear glass jar sat among them—buttons? One navy blue button looked suspiciously like the kind from his LAPD uniform shirt; Sean's mouth twitched.
If this house weren't in Malibu he'd swear he was home—so many of his things were here.
He turned on the hot water; steam filled the space.
He hadn't planned to shave, but facing parents and kids at Jake's game called for a clean-cut look.
The sharp blade glided smoothly, stripping away stubble.
Shower, shave, ready.
Hot water rinsed off fatigue and the last traces of the night.
He dried himself and stepped out bare-chested, muscles defined beneath the swirling steam.
Rose sat up clutching the thin sheet, her eyes roaming over him openly—admiration, regret, and lingering desire mixing as though he were a masterpiece about to walk out the door.
Used to such attention, Sean walked to the closet and, as if at home, pulled open the section she had reserved for him long ago.
He slipped into a fitted T-shirt and jeans, then grabbed yesterday's brown leather jacket.
Bright sun outside made a jacket feel unnecessary, but his hand instinctively checked the small of his back—his service pistol.
He hesitated, then zipped the jacket halfway—weapon concealed, professional caution intact.
Better to avoid unnecessary questions.
"Coming with me?"
It was courtesy, like offering coffee you know will be declined.
Rose rasped, "Sean, I want to, but I'm wiped out—and you wouldn't want me cheering for Jake sounding like a chain-smoker."
"All right—rest up. I'm heading out."
The bedroom door clicked shut; Rose, thoroughly exhausted, drifted back to sleep.
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