And that what stings more than it should. Because when he looked at me like he did—as if I was something worth fighting for—it felt good. Addictive.
And that’s troubling.
I know what it’s like to be wanted… right up until I’m not. Quinn taught me that. He loved me until I became inconvenient. Until my grief became something heavier than he wanted to help me carry.
One day I was his world. And the next, just a girl in his rearview mirror.
So yeah, Nolan’s gaze? The slow drag of his eyes across my body, taking in the shape of me? That should’ve meant nothing. Because he means nothing.
Except it didn’t.
Now I’m in my bed, skin flushed, legs restless, and heart hammering like I just ran a marathon barefoot in the rain.
And the image of Nolan “Please Ruin Me”Rhodes is burned behind my eyelids—a brand I never asked for.
But God, the way his tux hugged his body. It was custom built to destroy my last nerve. The open collar of his shirt once he took the tie off. He rolled his sleeves up over those toned forearms and I nearly came undone just standing there watching him do it.
His scent. Bourbon and cedar and something spicy. Sin in a bottle.
I press my thighs together, a desperate, useless attempt to ease the ache building inside me.
Damn it.
I hate him.
But I want to know exactly what those hands would do on my skin. I want his mouth on mine—dragging me in, backing me against a wall, pinning me there and consuming me all night.
Would he take his time?
Would he devour me?
Savor me?
A tremble courses through me.
I roll onto my side, but it only makes things worse. The friction of the sheets reminds me of what I don’t have—of what I’m craving.
Of what I shouldn’t be thinking about.
Nolan would be thorough. Precise. He wouldn’t just touch me—he’d claim me.
My fingers trail down my stomach, hesitant, testing the heat that’s been building since the second he looked at me like I was already his and said, “Oh, definitely a mark.”
I want him.
I want that tension. That edge. That ache that won’t quit until someone breaks.
I want to know how Nolan Rhodes takes apart a woman, piece by piece.
My hand dips beneath the hem of my sleep shirt, skin electric at the contact. I close my eyes, letting the fantasy rise to meet me.
Nolan’s hands, his breath, his voice a low rasp against my neck.
What would he say to me?
“Open for me, Rorie. I’m not stopping until I’ve got you dripping on my tongue and your taste burned into my fucking memory.”
My tongue flicks across my bottom lip, slow and instinctive, as my fingers trail lower, skimming over the slick heat between my thighs. I circle my clit once—twice—barely brushing it, a teasing rhythm that makes my breath catch.
