I didn't hear footsteps. I didn't hear a knock. Just the sudden, terrifying squeak of the hinge.
I gasped, the Kindle slipping from my sweaty fingers and smacking me right in the forehead before cluttering onto the mattress. "Ow! Shit!"
"Graceful."
The voice was low, dark, and amused. I scrambled up, clutching the sheet to my chest, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Beau filled the doorway. And God, he was a vision designed specifically to wreck me.
He was shirtless, his skin glowing with a faint sheen of sweat and shower water. His hair was messy, damp blond strands falling over his forehead, making his blue eyes look darker, piercing. But it was the sweatpants that killed me. They were gray, soft, and hung obscenely low on his hips, clinging to his thighs and draping heavily over the bulge between his legs. The V-lines of his Adonis belt cut deep grooves into his lower stomach, disappearing into the waistband like arrows pointing to paradise.
He smelled like Irish Spring soap, rain, and raw, masculine musk.
"Beau," I breathed, my voice trembling. "You scared the hell out of me."
"Did I?" He stepped inside, pushing the door shut with a slow, deliberate click of the lock. He didn't look sorry. He looked hungry. His gaze raked over me—from the messy bun on my head, down the flushed column of my neck, lingering on the hard points of my nipples pressing against the white tank, and finally landing on the bare expanse of my legs. "You look... busy."
"I was reading," I defended, though I knew my face was bright red.
He moved toward the bed, prowling like a large cat. The mattress dipped significantly as he sat down, not on the edge, but right next to my hip. He leaned in, invading my space, his body heat radiating off him in waves.
"Reading?" He plucked the Kindle from the sheets. "Let's see what literature has you sweating like a sinner in church."
"Beau, give it—"
"Ah, ah." He held it out of reach with one long arm, his other hand settling heavy and warm on my knee. His thumb began to rub idle circles against my inner thigh, sending sparks shooting straight to my core. "Let's see."
He looked at the screen, and a slow, devilish smirk curled his lips.
"Oh, this is gold," he murmured. He cleared his throat, pitching his voice into a ridiculous, breathy, high-society accent. "'Oh, my Lord,' Clara gasped, her bosom heaving with repressed longing. 'Your member... it is so prodigious.'"
I buried my face in my hands, laughing despite the mortification. "Stop! You're ruining it!"
"Ruining it? I'm enhancing it." He scrolled down, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "'He growled, his manhood throbbing against his breeches.'" Beau paused, looking at me with a raised eyebrow. "Manhood? Breeches? Why is it so polite? If I had you against a velvet divan, Winnie, I wouldn't be thinking about my 'manhood.'"
"Oh yeah?" I challenged, my breath catching as his hand slid higher up my thigh, his calloused palm rough against my soft skin. "What would you be thinking about?"
The humor vanished from his face instantly, replaced by a dark, intense hunger.
"I'd be thinking about how wet you are," he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly rumble. "I'd be thinking about how good you'd taste."
He looked back at the screen, but the game had changed. He wasn't mocking it anymore; he was using it.
"'He traced the curve of her bodice,'" Beau read softly, his own hand leaving my thigh to glide up my stomach. His fingers were hot, trailing fire over my ribs. "'His fingers seeking the rosy peaks of her desire.'"
He looked me in the eye. "Rosy peaks. Jesus."
He didn't break eye contact as his hand moved to cover my breast. He didn't just touch it; he claimed it. His large hand engulfed me, squeezing the soft flesh through the thin fabric. I gasped, my head falling back. He used his thumb to flick my nipple, hard, and a jolt of pleasure zipped down my spine.
"That's better," he whispered. "Real. Responsive."
He glanced at the text again. "'He lowered his head to lave her neck...' Lave? Like a dog?" He snorted, then leaned in close, his lips brushing the sensitive skin below my ear. "I'm not going to lave you, Winnie. I'm going to mark you."
And he did. His mouth latched onto my neck, teeth grazing the skin before he sucked, hard. It was a possession. A claiming. I moaned, my hands tangling in his damp hair, pulling him closer. He smelled intoxicating—clean skin and arousal.
"'Her center wept for him,'" he read against my skin, the vibration of his voice sending shivers through me. He pulled back, tossing the Kindle onto the floor with a loud clatter. "Wept. Tragically vague."
He pushed me back onto the pillows, looming over me. His shoulders were broad, blocking out the light, his muscles bunching as he braced himself on either side of my head.
