Because it isn’t.
With Roarke West, nothing has ever felt so right.
The man is pure heat—all finesse.And his hard body fits against mine like it was made for this.
He guides me into a sunroom tucked off the garden path.
Empty.Dim, with a stained-glass skylight and velvet-draped chaise.
The air is thick with florals and candle wax.
My back hits the door as he closes it behind us.His mouth crashes into mine again, all hunger and heat.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he growls.“The way you sound when you come.The way you look when you break.”
I moan as his hands slide down, lifting the hem of my dress.
“I want you spread out,” he rasps.“I want to hear you beg.”
“Then take me,” I whisper.
He groans, pulling me into his body.“Tell me you want this.Right now.Here.”
“Yes,” I whimper.“God, yes.”
He spins me gently, guiding me down onto the velvet chaise.The dress pools around my hips, and he kneels between my thighs, kissing the inside of my knee, my thigh, the spot where I start to tremble.
“I’ve thought about this every night since that kiss,” he murmurs.“Every night, Mia.”
His fingers stroke through my already wet folds—across my clit, drawing a gasp from my lips.
“You’re soaked,” he huffs, surprised.“Fuck, I love how ready you get for me.”
He tugs a condom from his wallet, rips it open with his teeth, and releases his cock from his dark slacks.
The length of him is glorious.Thick.Sturdy.And mouth-watering.Positioning the thin rubber, he sheathes himself quickly, smoky blue eyes never leaving mine.
Then he sinks into me.
The first thrust knocks the breath from my lungs.
“Oh my God…”
“You feel so good, Mia,” he grits out, holding still.“So warm.So fucking soft.”
He starts to move, slow and controlled, rolling his hips as his hand closes gently around my throat.
“Look at me, Mia,” he whispers.“I want to see you soaking my cock, sweetheart.”
I meet his gaze.
It’s dark.Possessive.Worshipful.
“God,” he breathes, “do you know what it’s like—watching you day in and day out, not being able to touch you?Wanting to bend you over the boat railing and fuck you three ways from Sunday?”
“Yes,” I gasp.“Roarke, please.Don’t be?—“
“Be what?”
