I want her on my lap, my mouth, my hand, everywhere. When she’s tearing into me with those sharp-as-hell words and looking like sin in stilettos, I crumble.
And fuck, it’s been too long since I’ve tasted anything that fucking delicious.
But she’s not a one-night detour.
Rorie Adams is a woman you memorize in phases. Slow. Intentional. She’s not for the careless or the cowards.
Which makes this complicated.
Because I’m still bleeding from Chloe in ways I haven’t stitched shut. Still bristling at the idea of letting anyone close enough to bruise me again. And Rorie? She wouldn’t bruise. She’d brand.
Her type of fire makes you beg to burn.
I’m not ready for her.
But that hasn’t stopped the wanting.
I drag myself off the couch and grab a bottle of water from the fridge, chugging half like it might douse whatever hell is trying to light up inside me again.
It doesn’t work.
I’m horny as hell, lonelier than I care to admit, and I miss the weight of a woman against me. Heat and curves and breath that isn’t mine. Something solid. Human.
I need a distraction.
The best kind.
I tap my screen.
Textually Frustrated.
Thumbing through our texts, a smirk curls up my mouth. I don’t know what we are. Friends. Something else. It doesn’t matter. It’s honest. It’s light. And for now, it’s enough.
I need a distraction.
Bad day?
It’s a woman.
Tell me everything. I’ve got popcorn and questionable morals.
She’s smart. Competitive. Brilliant. And hot in this slow-burn, totally-ruin-your-life way.
Also, I’m fairly certain she wants to bury me alive.
So naturally you’re into her.
Of course. But she’s deemed us enemies.
Spicy.
She hates me. Like… with her whole soul.
Mmm. A classic. Go on.
She’s also sexy as hell.
I can’t stop thinking about how she might taste.
