Page 48 of Only ever you-Ana & Byron
His eyes swept her body slowly. His gaze stalled on the faint line beneath her ribs, a silvery scar just beginning to fade. Another acrossher hip. A ghost of bruising along her thigh and the scarring on her leg. The aftermath of a close call.
He didn't ask, but his throat worked as if he wanted to.
She stood still under the weight of it.
His jaw flexed, a flicker of emotion crossing his face, his eyes suspiciously wet for a second, before he turned away sharply.
"Missed a sock," he said gruffly.
Ana blinked, looked down.
She was completely naked... except for one ridiculous sock still clinging to her left foot.
A surprised laugh escaped her.
Byron didn't look at her, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
"Sexy," she said dryly, kicking it off. "Bet you fantasised about this moment."
He tossed her a bottle of water and climbed into bed, facing the ceiling.
"You have no idea," he muttered.
He reached for her hand and laced his fingers with hers before pulling her under the duvet and spooning her.
"Don't say I never take care of you," he muttered against her ear "I have been working out for years for this."
"I don't know if I can trust that." She arched a brow. "You also let a cockapoo violate you in the lift."
He chuckled. "That mutt's got no shame. Bet he's from Salford."
He snorted, then kissed her ear.
"Go to sleep, Bartolini."
***
Chapter twenty-two
Chapter 21
The light hurt.
Ana squinted at the soft haze pouring in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The blackout curtains had been drawn and the light filtered through the sheer gossamer curtains. The apartment was bathed in gold, everything crisp with patchy shadows extending onto the king-sized bed. She stretched and instantly regretted it.
Everything hurt.
Her thighs. Her ribs. Her neck. Her bloody jaw.
Welcome to thirty.
Not that the milestone had brought any wisdom or spiritual transformation. Just backache and a reminder that knees had an expiry date. They had begun to creak, for fucks sake.
She reached over to the other side of the bed and found a Byron-sized indent which had gone cold.
Of course it was. Byron had already woken her up twice, once in the dead of night, once just before dawn, to have his way. She had eagerlygone along for the ride each time. In fact, she'd gone down on him that second time, slow and filthy, just to see him come apart for her.
The way he'd looked down at her,-as she took him deep into her throat, chest heaving, sweat-slick and groaning, like all his birthdays had come at once.
