Sophia Ryan

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“Natasha thinks you’re her hero.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because you’re taking her to bed.” Even she heard the jealousy in her tone.

He lifted his hand to the back of her head, let his fingers tangle in her hair. “Well, now, love. Isn’t that what you wanted?” Dipping his head, he leaned a little closer, close enough for her to breathe in his exhalation as he spoke. “For me to fuck her?”

Up until that point, it had been mostly teasing between them. But when she felt his guttural “fuck” sink into her skin and lodge deep in her body, the mood shifted. At that moment, she was acutely, achingly aware that she didn’t want him fucking Natasha. She didn’t want him fucking any woman. Any woman but… No. She couldn’t say it. Not even to herself.

“Do you want to?” she managed.

His eyes—lazy, hazy, and unwavering—gripped hers, holding her still. The intensity in their blue depths wouldn’t let her look away or speak. She could barely breathe from the way he was looking at her. Time slowed, freezing them in place, mouths inches from each other.

“Breena.” His whisper burned into her skin. “You’re the only woman I want to fuck.”

Her eyes opened wide. The words, the brush of his breath on her face, the weight of his hand in her hair, the feel of him so close threw off sparks all through her body, and she couldn't think.

"Ask me not to fuck her," he breathed, then kissed and nibbled all her sensitive spots of flesh. "Ask me to fuck you."

“Don’t fuck with me, Charleigh.” Josh kept his voice to a low whisper. “I promise, you won’t like the results. I’m no longer the gullible boy you had wrapped around your little finger.”

His harsh tone cracked her reverie like a fist to an eggshell, and it took every ounce of will she could muster to stand her ground against him. She leaned back at the waist to take in his face. The subtle move thrust her hips into him, and she swore she felt the bulge between his legs harden.

“Believe me, Josh, fucking with you is the last thing I want to do. And by the way…it’s Mrs. Simms to you.”

His eyes and face drew even harder. For a split second, he looked like he was going to slam his mouth onto hers in a punishing kiss that would make her regret crossing him and make her body and soul bend to his will. But then he dropped his hands to his sides and stepped back.

“Have it your way, Mrs. Simms.” He said the name like it left a bad taste in his mouth. “Today. Monday morning you’d better be ready when I get here at 7:00. If you’re not, you can pack your bags, and you and the boy can go back to wherever the hell you came from, because I’m not going to waste my time if you’re unwilling me meet me half way.”

As he spun away from her and stormed toward the door, she couldn’t hold her tongue on a final stinging retort. “Pull off those shitkickers the next time you come into my house, Flores. I’m not here to clean up your messes.”

At the sound of the screen door slamming, she dropped heavily into a chair and felt every stitch in the never-healed wounds in her soul pop open.


Noah said nothing for a long moment. Then he unbuckled his seatbelt, practically vaulted

from the pickup, and stormed around to her side.

Claire unbuckled her seatbelt and turned so she could face him. He pulled open the door, his kissable mouth

inches from hers.

“You need to say that again. And I need to see your eyes to know what the fuck you’re thinking.”

Keeping her eyes tight on his, she reached out

her hand and cupped the bulge in his jeans. “I want to suck your cock ’til you explode. And when we get to the lake, I want to fuck you. All night.”

His breath had become labored, like hers, and

she could see the war waging behind his eyes. She understood, having fought the same war, but never had she so badly needed him to go against reason and say yes.

He backed away a step, then two, but then rushed back to her, reached out, and dug his hands

into her hair at the back of her head. He yanked her in, obliterating the distance that separated their mouths.

He kissed her hard, his mouth ravaging hers, his tongue mastering hers, his taste consuming her, his passion giving her the yes she craved.

Wasting no time, her hands flew to his jeans, unfastened them, and reached into his boxers. His cock was hard as a rock, drops of moisture already beading at the slit.

A moan left his mouth at her touch, and he broke off the kiss. His features were still intense but no longer angry, and his eyes—his stormy eyes—were almost pleading for her to start before he changed his mind.