JULIAN I woke up sore in the best and worst way.Sun was already cutting through the villa slats, striping the sheets and Enzo’s shoulder. His arm lay heavy across my waist and his palm sat on my ass like it had been there all night and had no plans to move. When I shifted, everything twinged—hips, wrists, that deep used ache that made me bite my lip before I could stop it. He felt it. He squeezed once, lazy, and didn’t lift his head.“Morning,” he muttered into my neck. “Don’t get up yet.”“I’m starving.”“Chefs left food. I heard them at six.” He rubbed a slow circle over the sore spot and I made a sound I didn’t mean to make. “Still hurt?”“Yeah. In a good way.”He smiled against my skin. “Naughty.”We pulled on shorts and stumbled downstairs. The dining room was already set like somebody’s American mom had come through, laid everything out, and vanished. Scrambled eggs, bacon, pancakes, fruit, coffee, orange juice, toast, little dishes of butter and syrup. Marcus sat at the head
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