He drives into me harder, finding a rhythm I know like a song I’ve heard thousands of times. “God, baby. You feel so fucking good.”
“Luke.” I know I should tell him to quit calling me baby, but my mouth can’t make words. All it can do is form soft little whimpers of pleasure. “Right there—oh! Just like that.”
“How are you so fucking perfect?”
Was that a rhetorical question? Because I don’t feel perfect. I feel rumpled and reckless and out of control.
But somehow I also feel safe. “Jesus.” How am I so close already? “Just like that.”
“I feel you squeezing me, sweetheart. You’re right at the edge, aren’t you? Your body’s a map I was born to read.”
“Goddamn it.” I should bite him for being so cocky, but I’m too fucking close to the brink of this cliff. I’m buzzing and fiery and trembling all over. “You’re an arrogant son of a—oh my God!”
I scream my release, vocal cords lighting up gold like the rest of me. I’m flaming, flying, filling my lungs with shimmery sparks as I shout out his name.
Luke gives a harsh groan and releases his own surge of pleasure. His thrusts start to slow as he presses his forehead to mine. Sweat seals us together, but I’m much too satisfied to mind all the stickiness or the fact that my hair is a mess.
All I care about right now is how good this feels.
He opens his eyes, and he’s so close I see speckles of copper swimming in oceans of blue. The look on his face steals my breath. “Mine,” he grits out, kissing me softly. “Mine.”
I must be possessed. He’s pinning me down, commanding me with his gaze and his body. That’s the only explanation for the word tumbling over my lips.
“Yes,” I rasp out between pants. “Yours.”
A slow, languid smile spreads over his face. He kisses me softly, then rolls over and cradles me snugly against him.
My heartbeat should’ve slowed by now, but it’s banging my ribs like I’m running for my life. What just happened?
And what on earth did we just say to each other?
I comfort myself with a mantra my meditation app never taught me.
It’s just sex.
Only sex.
Nothing but meaningless pillow talk
But my heart doesn’t seem to be soothed. It keeps banging away, aware that I’ve just unraveled every promise we’ve made.
“Did you win an award?”
Luke’s sleep-raspy voice tugs me slowly from my dreamlike stupor. How long have I been out?
“Huh?” Peeling my cheek off his chest, I blink myself back from oblivion. “An award for sex?”
Chuckling, he kisses my chin. “Well-deserved, but not what I meant.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“Some sorta top boss award.” His hand strokes my back, loosening something inside me. “Mason mentioned it.”
“Oh.” An anchor of drowsiness drags me back to his chest, and I settle back down with my ear to his heart. The steady thud coaxes me into a thick, dreamy haze. “Not an award, exactly. I was named to this year’s Top Forty Oregon Women in Business list. It’s not a big deal.”
“The hell it’s not.” He’s stroking my hair, fingertips trailing my spine to the top of my tailbone. “Congratulations, Hazel. That’s pretty damn cool.”
“Thank you.” I hesitate. “It’s really nothing. They just saw the Spencer name and know I’m Owen Spencer’s daughter, so it’s his clout that earned it. Or they figured the scandal would sell lots of?—”
