Nicholas was whistling.
Actually whistling—an old Sinatra tune, barely audible as he shrugged into his crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled casually at the elbows. His cufflinks sat forgotten on the nightstand; he didn't need them today. Not when he was still tasting Ella on his lips, still feeling the softness of her thighs tangled around his hips when he closed his eyes.
Christ, she was something else.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror—hair tousled, lips slightly red, and, for the first time in months, a glimmer of something light behind his usually sharp, cold gaze.
His phone buzzed on the dresser, but he ignored it at first, too focused on tucking his shirt, smoothing the material over his abs, running a hand over his jaw where her nails had left faint pink lines.
