The room was dimly lit, the soft glow from the bedside lamp casting shadows across Drew’s bare chest as he leaned against the headboard. His fingers tapped idly against the glass of whiskey in his hand, but his eyes—those sharp, knowing blue eyes—were locked on her.

She stood near the window, wearing nothing but his shirt, the fabric draping over her curves in a way that made his throat dry. The city lights flickered behind her, but she was the only thing he saw. The only thing he wanted.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured, taking a slow sip.

She turned to face him, one brow arching. “Am I supposed to be saying something?”

Drew smirked, setting the glass down on the nightstand. “Well, usually, when a woman sneaks out of bed to stare out the window, it means she’s thinking. And when a woman’s thinking after what we just did…” He trailed off, his smirk deepening. “It either means she’s regretting it, or she’s trying really hard not to fall.”

Her lips parted slightly, but she didn’t speak right away. He watched the rise and fall of her chest, the way her fingers gripped the edge of the windowsill like she was bracing herself.

She was trying not to fall.

He knew the signs. Hell, he’d been the same way once—before he learned that love had a way of unraveling a man, stripping him down until there was nothing left but need.

“I don’t regret it,” she admitted, voice softer now.

Drew pushed off the bed, moving toward her with the kind of ease that should’ve been illegal. Every inch of him radiated confidence, control, like he already knew exactly how this would end. Like he had her right where he wanted her.

When he reached her, he slid a hand around her waist, pulling her flush against him. His lips brushed against her ear as he whispered, “Then stop thinking and let yourself fall.”

She exhaled, shuddering against him.

And just like that, she was his.