Sylvie’s body lagged behind the moment. Her knees stayed weak, and she couldn’t tell whether it came from nearly falling—or where she had landed instead.
A cold shock slid down her spine.
It had nothing to do with the draft from the open door.
She couldn’t let him leave like that. Not with that quiet sense of triumph, like he’d just rescued a helpless new baker. She forced her voice to reboot and called after him, aiming to sound professional and controlled.
She failed.
“I hope you come back next week—for my soft and warm buns!”
The words hung in the air. They didn’t sound like an invitation to a bakery. They sounded like an offer she very much hadn’t meant to make.
Or had she?
Sylvie swallowed hard and wished the floorboards would give way.
He didn’t turn. His tail swayed in a sharp, impulsive flick as he strode outside, his powerful legs moving with fluid, predatory grace.
His scent stayed behind. In the air. On her skin.
Musk and charred spice, with something dark and wild pulsing beneath it.
It felt wrong.
In all the delicious, forbidden ways she wasn’t prepared for.
Chapter 2: Rhavor
When Rhavor stepped out of the bakery, he struggled to gather his thoughts.
Sunlight hit him full in the face, sharp and unforgiving, and he stood there on the pavement far longer than was reasonable, blinking like a fool and trying—failing—to remember why he’d come outside at all. One intrusive, relentless image in his head.
Her.
Specifically, the lush curve of her hips and ass, wrapped in yoga pants so unforgiving he’d been able to tell—unmistakably—that her underwear was lace.
Red lace.
The memory hit him low and hard, dragging his attention straight down to the ache straining against his jeans. He swore under his breath and scrubbed a hand over his face, but it did nothing to dislodge the rest of it. If anything, it made it worse.
She fit into his arms so perfectly it was dangerous.
The softness of her belly, the fullness of her hips pressed tight against him—her breasts against his chest, full and yielding, leaving behind a phantom warmth that still burned through the fabric of his shirt.
She was so soft. And warm.
It had been like his body had known her long before his mind had caught up.
Her face with that mixed expression of disbelief and embarrassment looked so sweet when he held her in his grasp.
Her scent was still on him.
Vanilla. Caramel. Something faintly floral beneath it all.
A scent that made him want to bend his head and breathe her in until nothing else existed.
By the time he reached his truck, his cock was still half-hard, throbbing with an insistence that made him grip the steering wheel until his knuckles bleached white.
