The suite smelled faintly of expensive leather, citrus candle wax, and the sharp clean bite of hotel air-conditioning. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a glittering Los Angeles skyline that looked almost too perfect to be real.
I carried Rory through the doorway to the smaller bedroom like she was made of glass—her small head tucked under my chin, one arm looped loosely around my neck, the other dangling soft and trusting.
Every step was measured so her breathing stayed even, so the faint rise and fall of her chest against mine never faltered.
Didn't want to wake her up.
Patt followed three steps behind. I could feel her gaze like heat on the back of my neck—not casual observation, not polite curiosity.
Hunger. The kind that starts low in the belly and climbs slowly until it sits heavy in the throat.
There was no need to pretend, we both knew what we were here for.
