Quinlan woke to warmth, softness, and the slow rise and fall of a dozen satisfied breaths.
His sinful den, the master bedroom, looked like the aftermath of a festival dedicated solely to pleasure.
Limbs were tangled across silk sheets. Hair spilled over pillows. Bare shoulders peeked from half-slipped blankets. Every woman wore the same expression: that hazy, blissed-out look that came only after being thoroughly, relentlessly ruined.
He let his eyes drift over them with a lazy pride.
He'd worked hard for those expressions.
He intended to enjoy the view.
But just then, a low, rhythmic slurping sensation started to register through the haze of his contentment. It was a wet, insistent sound that didn't quite fit the symphony of sleepy sighs and slow breaths filling the room.
His lazy pride sharpened into sudden awareness.
He did a quick mental count, eyes sweeping over the beautiful, tangled mass of women.
One was missing.
