Page 58 of Executive Privilege

One year later, I wake up in our bed.

Not my bed, not Nicholas's hotel suite, but the king-size bed in the master bedroom of the downtown loft we chose together—exposed brick walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, and enough space for both my art supplies and Nicholas's growing guitar collection.

"Good morning," Nicholas says, his voice still rough with sleep as he pulls me closer against his chest. "How did you sleep?"

"Like someone who doesn't have to sneak out of log cabins anymore," I murmur, turning in his arms to face him.

Three months of this. Three months of waking up together, sharing coffee in our kitchen, arguing about paint colors and furniture placement like a normal couple building a normal life.

"I still can't believe you talked me into buying a place with wall space specifically designated for your art studio," Nicholas says, trailing his fingers along my bare shoulder.

"I still can't believe you talked me into a loft with acoustics specifically designed for guitar playing."

"Compromise is an important relationship skill."

"Is that what we're calling it, compromise? I think it's us both getting what we want."

Nicholas's laugh rumbles through his chest, and the sound still makes my heart skip. Some things never change. Some things just get better.

"Speaking of compromise," he says, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at me, "Diego wants to know if we're coming to his new show next week."

"The one featuring local emerging artists?"

"The one where he's displaying three of your paintings, yes, that one.

I groan and bury my face against Nicholas's shoulder. "I'm going to kill him."

"He means well. And your work is good, Sadie. Good enough that people should see it."

"My work is therapy disguised as art."

Nicholas has been encouraging my painting for months now, setting up the studio space in our loft and occasionally disappearing for hours so I can work in private. Last week, I caught him staring at my latest piece—an abstract in oranges and golds that somehow captures the feeling of falling in love despite your better judgment.

"What if people hate it?" I ask.

"What if they love it?"

"Then I'll have to acknowledge that I'm actually good at something besides social media strategy and reading people's bullshit."

"Tragedy," Nicholas says solemnly. "A woman with multiple talents. However will the world cope?"

I kiss him to shut him up, and what starts as playful quickly turns into something deeper.

"We should get up," I murmur against his lips. "Big day ahead."

"Should," Nicholas agrees, his hands already moving to strip away the thin tank top I sleep in. "But will we?"

"Probably not."

"Definitely not."

What follows is slow and reverent and completely different from the desperate encounters of our early relationship. This is the sex of people who know they have time, who trust that this moment won't be the last, who've learned that vulnerability makes everything more intense.

Nicholas maps my body with his mouth and hands worshipping every inch of skin like he's still amazed I'm real.

"God, I love the way you taste. So sweet, so perfect. I could spend hours right here, making you fall apart with my mouth."

"Tell me what you want," he says, moving back up my body with predatory grace.