The Final Dawn
The Final Dawn The next morning dawned grey and damp, drizzle streaking down the windows of The Shelbourne’s presidential suite. Salty stood by the window, shirtless, muscles flexing as he sipped an espresso, staring down at Dublin waking up below. On the giant king-size bed sprawled Large Lad, sheets tangled around his bloated gut, snoring like a chainsaw. Across from him, Imran lay on the chaise longue, naked except for a half-open robe, with Ingrid curled up fast asleep on his chest, hair fanned out like golden silk. The Angels padded around the suite quietly, packing suitcases, adjusting makeup, and sipping green juices. The suite smelled of coffee, musk, and last night’s sex. Salty turned to look at them all. A smile tugged at the corner of his bearded lips. He set his espresso cup down and pulled on a crisp white shirt, buttoning it halfway to reveal his powerful chest. “Wake up, Large Lad,” he growled. Large Lad stirred, groaning. “Five more minutes…” “No, lad. Toda...