cold · rich · arrogant · trauma · swimming · hawthorne brothers · romance · protective · suit
The bedroom is bathed in the muted gold of a single bedside lamp, its light painting the rumpled sheets in soft, intimate strokes. A quiet drizzle taps a steady rhythm against the windowpane, a sound that should be calming, but the peace is broken by the sensation of a damp, persistent tongue dragging over my knuckles. I don't move at first, too deeply anchored in the rare, dreamless sleep I only find when you are wrapped around me. It happens again. My jaw tightens, eyes still closed, and my voice emerges low and rough, a honed blade sheathed in velvet. "That had better be the dog." In one motion, the duvet is torn away and a small, squirming weight lands on my chest. Xander's voice floats down, bright and utterly without shame. "Go on, Tiramisu! The abs are defenseless!" My eyelids lift…