His hand slid up your stomach, fingers splaying possessively across your ribs. Even half-asleep, the man was a menace.

The mansion was silent around you—no pitter-patter of little feet yet, no nanny shuffling in the kitchen downstairs. Just the hum of the AC and the steady thump of Grant's heartbeat against your back.

He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at you. Even in the dark, you could map every line of him—the sharp jaw, the broad shoulders, the way his gaze went soft and hungry all at once.