Callum’s bare front moulded against her back, his right arm heavy over her waist, hand cupping her right breast, anchoring her to him. Her own right hand was hooked behind her, holding his firm backside. His cool breath puffed against her throat, slow and steady, and he felt as bone tired on her senses as she did. In her one hundred and twelve years of life, she had never felt so safe, not even as a youngling in her mother’s arms. The way Callum held her pressed so close to him so there wasn’t a millimetre where their bodies didn’t touch and the sleepy growls that accompanied any shift of his body against hers or tightening of his grip, made her feel so protected. She was sure that if anyone came for her here and right now that he would instantly snap awake and fend them off. But how long could this fairytale last? He had already said that he would leave Paris in a week. Everything else he said came rushing into her mind like a dam had broken and flooded it, driving out the comfort of sleeping in his arms.
