The backyard was quiet in the early evening light—golden, lazy, the kind of sun that made everything feel slower, warmer, more intimate.
Aiden sat on the old stone bench near the rose trellis, legs spread comfortably.
Nayla was draped sideways across his lap like she belonged there—always had, always would.
Her long legs hung over one of his thighs, the sheer white-and-gold gown riding high enough to expose the smooth sapphire expanse of her upper thighs.
The plunging neckline barely contained her anymore; every breath made the heavy swell of her breasts threaten to spill completely free.
She had one arm looped possessively around the back of his neck, fingers playing idly with the short hairs at his nape.
Her other hand rested on his chest, palm flat over his heart, feeling it beat steady and strong beneath her touch.
