They slept like the dead.
No—worse than dead. Dead people at least had the common courtesy to look peaceful, composed, maybe a touch waxy around the edges like the funeral home had tried to Photoshop them into serenity.
These two looked like they'd been run over by a very specific truck: one manufactured entirely from dick, multiple orgasms, and forty-five minutes that had somehow stretched into three seconds and three lifetimes simultaneously, depending on which lobe of Phei's brain you polled for testimony.
Curled together on the chaise. Limbs everywhere—an arm flung here, a leg hooked there, Sierra's face mashed into the leather in a way that was definitely going to leave creases and would definitely make her murderous when she woke up and saw the imprint.
Maddie was drooling. Actually drooling. A thin, glistening silver thread connecting her lip to Sierra's shoulder like some obscene suspension bridge between their unconscious corpses.
Sexy, Phei thought.
