The scent of him was everywhere. On my skin, in my hair, on the rumpled silk sheets tangled around our legs. Crosby lay beside me, one heavily tattooed arm thrown possessively over my waist, his breathing deep and even in the aftermath. The city lights through the penthouse windows painted shifting patterns across his bare back, a landscape of power and sin I had now mapped with my own hands. A profound, humming silence filled the room, thick with the weight of what we had just done.
And then, my phone buzzed.
It wasn't a gentle hum. It was a violent, insistent rattle against the glass surface of the nightstand, the screen flashing with a name that sent a jolt of ice water through my veins.
RIVEN.
The spell shattered.
Reality crashed down with the force of a physical blow. The warmth of Crosby's body against mine suddenly felt claustrophobic, the scent of our coupling suffocating. Guilt, sharp and serrated, gutted me.
