My hackles go up as I immediately recognize the name. What are the chances that I would run into someone from Monteith Real Estate Development? I don’t believe in coincidences—and Monteith isn’t a common name.
“How can I help you, Mr. Monteith?” I ask politely, keeping my voice level and my disdain tucked away.
“As I said, I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. You see, I have children of my own—grown now, of course, with their own lives, but a parent always worries.”
“My parents have nothing to worry about?”
“Don’t they?” he muses, his tone turning razor sharp, but those eyes remain fixed on me. “When silly little girls think they know better than their elders, it’s a cause for worry. Leave the sea lions alone.”
It’s a thinly veiled threat, but it’s not like I didn’t expect to eventually run into someone from his company. I didn’t expect someone this senior. But he doesn’t scare me. Much.
“This island doesn’t belong to you,” I say, pushing back my chair and rising to my feet. “It’s not your place to decide what happens here.”
Those eyes flash with something cold before he smooths it over. “It would be a shame if something happened to youout there. Your parents would be heartbroken. They sound like lovely people.”
I glare at him. “Are you threatening me?”
“I’m speaking as a concerned…observer. The Alaskan wilderness is dangerous, and anything can happen.” He smiles. “Be safe, Sylvie!”
I walk away from the table and out of the inn. I barely feel the cold when it hits my face on the walk back to my townhouse. I’m still seething when I get ready for bed and the sharp edge of irritation remains at the base of my stomach even as I slide into the warmth of my blankets.
Men like Brett Monteith don’t intimidate me. I grew up going to protests with my parents—stood on picket lines before I was tall enough to hold the signs properly. I’ve watched my father face down developers twice the size of Monteith and never flinch. A man who hides behind money and veiled warnings isn’t brave. He’s just loud.
I work myself into a nasty little temper, glaring at the white ceiling. Then, before I can stop it, my drifts to the shift to the handsome man I met today.
Wyatt Hudson.
The man had a deep, sexy voice that would work any woman out of her better judgment. I imagine it wouldn’t take long for that voice and those hazel eyes to get me to strip for him. The lilt in his voice carried a smooth quality to it that made it so seductive and sexy. And that body…
I sigh as I slide a hand under the blankets, trailing my fingers down my neck and over my breasts. I picture those long, calloused hands touching me, drawing slow circles over my nipples and making me arch into his touch.
It’s wrong. Christ, I know it’s wrong to fantasize about a stranger, but I can’t help myself.
He doesn’t know. He never has to know that it’s him I picture as I slide my hand beneath my old T-shirt and palm my breasts. I squeeze them, pinching my nipples and imagining him doing it—his lips pressed to my ear, saying the most indecent things. Things he’d do with me, to me, for me… My breath hitches as my nipples harden, turning sensitive.
“Wyatt,” I whisper, just to taste the weight of it. It’s perfect. I say it again, drawing my bottom lip between my teeth as my hand dips lower, sliding over my stomach and inching toward my center.
That body… Christ, what does a man have to do to be built like that? The image comes back—Wyatt carrying those five crates out of the store like they weighed nothing. Those arms shifting under that flannel shirt. I bet he could lift me onto his kitchen counter without a second thought. Shove himself between my thighs and press his hard length right where I ache.
And I do ache.
For a man I have no business wanting. But he’s not here to help ease the ache, but I am. I gasp softly as I slip my fingers between my folds, unsurprised to find myself already slick with arousal.
Do it.
I can almost hear that deep rugged voice hot in my ear, urging me to pleasure myself in ways he would if he were here. It’s madness. It’s crazy but I do it, opening my legs wider and stroking at the sensitive bundle of nerves between my thighs. I haven’t done this in a long time and never while thinking of someone real.
It’s strange, and it feels different. To have a face and a name in my head. To picture a body pressed against mine when I’ve never been touched by a man before. Even stranger is the fact that I can almost feel his breath against my skin and his voice in my ears.
Faster, baby.
“Yes,” I whimper, moving my fingers in quick, sure strokes, eyes fluttering closed as I moan. It’s his deep, raspy growl I hear and feel against my skin as my body pulses with pleasure. It’s those strong muscles I see when I close my eyes, buried in the memory of that warm, earthy scent that still lingers somehow at the back of my mind.
You’ll do everything I say?
“God, yes,” I cry out, my hips rising from the bed. I stroke harder, chasing the edge I’ve found dozens of times before but never like this—never this sharp, never this consuming.
“Wyatt!”
