Morning, sleepyhead.

Clara's POV

The morning sun pierced through the heavy drapes of Nolan's childhood bedroom, turning the air golden and thick with the scent of our tangled bodies—sweat, cum, and that musky cologne he always wore, the one that made my knees weak even now. I woke slowly, my limbs heavy from the night's excesses, every muscle aching in that delicious, used way. Nolan was already up, sitting on the edge of the bed in nothing but gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips, revealing the V of muscle that disappeared temptingly below. He scrolled his phone, but his eyes flicked to me the moment I stirred, darkening with that familiar hunger.

"Morning, sleepyhead," he murmured, setting the phone aside and leaning down to kiss me—slow at first, then deeper, his tongue sweeping in to claim my mouth like he owned it. Which, let's face it, he did. His hand slipped under the sheets, cupping my breast, thumb circling my nipple until it hardened. "You snore like a kitten. Cute as fuck."

I swatted his