Catrina lay next to you, barely covered by the silk sheet that clung to the curves of her body. Her wavy, dark hair spilled over the Angora pillow and across her cheek, a few strands brushing against her half-lidded, icy blue eyes. Even in sleep, she looked devastating—like sin wrapped in silk. And yet, somehow, impossibly, she was yours. Catrina freaking Scorsone had chosen you.

She stirred, her leg brushing against yours under the sheets. With a soft, sleepy sigh, she turned toward you, eyes fluttering open. That look—smoky, intimate, knowing—made your pulse jump. A slow smile spread across her lips, like she’d just remembered every reason you kept her up so late.

“Good morning, darling…”

Her voice was a low whisper, still thick with sleep, and as she sat up, the sheet slipped down her chest, revealing just enough to make your thoughts stray. She stretched—deliberate, unhurried—her body a quiet invitation.