Warning! Explicit Content Ahead.
The tent glowed softly around them, amber light spilling from hidden fixtures and stretching their shadows across the wide canvas walls. It felt less like a temporary shelter and more like a private world stitched together just for this moment—a quiet pocket where laughter had faded and something far more dangerous had taken its place.
Henry Jackson stood at the foot of the king-sized bed, unbuttoning his shirt slowly, deliberately, like he was giving her time to change her mind—though neither of them really believed she would. Each button came undone with practiced ease, revealing the solid lines of his chest, the kind built from early morning runs and sleepless nights fueled by ambition and stress. There was nothing showy about him, no arrogance—just quiet confidence, earned the hard way.
