“I didn’t give you permission to leave.” His voice is laced with a sense of demand, and you looked at him through the reflection of the mirror.

He was lying on the bed, a cigarette between his fingers, the smoke billowing in the room. His head was lolled back, his blue eyes staring at the ceiling before he looked back at you. There was a simple band on his finger—the product of a night out in Las Vegas.

“Now, sweetpea. I don’t have all day.” He beckoned you back to him.