There were days, now, when Carolina woke with the weight of sunlight already warm on her back. She would stretch, catlike, along the fresh sheets, the move jostling Xander into a rumble of protest. Since the armistice, they’d taken up the habit of sleeping in, or, more truthfully, refusing to leave the bed until they’d mapped each other’s curves and scars and the shape of the morning’s every hunger. She’d learned the art of slow, selfish sex: the drag of nails up his flanks, the taste of his pulse pressed beneath her tongue. Sometimes they fucked in near silence, gentled and dazy, sometimes with the old desperation, as if they could outpace the memory of a thousand bloody dawns.After, they would share the shower—gin-colored sunlight steaming through cracked tile, the water running in sticky red streaks some mornings, antiseptic on others, and sometimes, when the city slept, only clean and hot.She’d never been the sentimental sort, but the simple acts of being alive—breaking bread, b
Última actualización : 2026-04-11 Leer más