Brett Jacobs watches her. Thinks. This is a mistake. He should be back in that alley. Or in the smoke of the club. Drinking. Watching. Entertaining himself. He doesn’t take strange women into his bed. His head, his heart, doesn’t understand that. Fucking should have a purpose, should contribute to an end goal. There is no end goal that will work in this scenario. She is from Georgia for God’s sake. Here on a bachelorette party, surrounded by a group of friends with eyes of hawks and sex drives of donkeys. A fuck with her will accomplish nothing—lead nowhere. The words his idiotic mouth had uttered in that alley will never work. What did he expect? That after a few hours in his bed, she will commit to him? Fill the hole that has existed for as long as he can remember? This woman who moves before him, the one who smells of lilies and brown sugar, has her own life. One he knows nothing about. A life that breathes fire and independence. One with roots and commitments and, for all he knows, its own leading man. He watches as the elevator doors open and she steps out, his hand reaching out, snagging the delicate warmth of her wrist, and dragging her to the side, rougher than necessary, his sudden need to know more asserting its dominance. He releases her wrist when she stumbles sideways, catching her weight and pinning it against the closest wall.

“Jeez.” The word comes out as an annoyed huff, her eyes flashing as he moves closer, places a hand on the wall beside her head, and stares into her eyes. “What is it with you and walls?”

“What’s it about you?”

“Me?” She lifts her chin, looks at him head on.

“I can’t stop myself. I want to pin you and fuck you against every surface I come to.” He swallows. Refocuses his agitation. “Are you in a relationship?”

Her body tightens. Breath shortens. Eyes focus on his mouth. All reactions he is familiar with. Can read as easily as a financial statement. Lust. A struggle against the reaction, her mind arguing with her want, her eyes losing focus as she licks her lips to wet them. Good God. He barely hears her response, hears the two-letter word sigh out of her lips as she leans against the wall, and he lets himself do what he’s thought about for the last fifteen minutes. Taste that sweet fucking tongue. Reach down and lift her up. Wrap her legs around his waist and carry her the short distance to his door, his hand fumbling with the key, mouths fighting in their frantic quest for more more more. Brett turns the handle, pushes the door, steps into the darkness and carries her to the bed. Tossing her off him, he takes a moment to catch his breath. Collect his wits. From behind, he hears the click of the closing door and, for the first time since meeting her, they are truly and completely alone together. He sends a short prayer upward for strength, restraint, the ability to touch her and be gentle.

“Stay here.” His breath seems harder than necessary, the wild look in his eyes enough to keep me in place, my own lust aiding in the desire to speed this process along. He steps away, running a hand through his hair, moves to the doors at the end of the room, opens the slider fully. Standing there for a moment, his hands high on the doorframe, his head hangs slightly as he appears to think.

I prop myself up. Make a conscious decision to ignore his directive and stand. Walk across the room until I am behind him. His back straightens, and he turns, his face dark, silhouetted by the lit night before him.

I stop. Look up into the darkness that is his face. His hand reaches forward, toward my face, and I flinch, his hand stopping a few inches away.

“Relax.” His hand moves slowly, brushing down and covering my eyes. “Close your eyes.”

I do. I close my eyes and feel his hand drop. Keep them closed as I turn every other sense to high alert. “Good girl,” he says softly. “Keep them closed.”

I do. I keep my world dark and try to relax. Feel the heat of him as he moves closer. I inhale, but only smell ocean, the breeze from the open door washing the scent of salt and sea across my face. Then his hands, brushing over my shoulderblades, tugging down the spaghetti straps of my dress. Swiping back across my collarbone as firm fingers tug at the front clasp of my dress. Silence as he parts the fabric and slides it down until my bra is the only thing on my upper half.

Closer. I can feel the brush of his chest against the soft pillow of my breasts. Both of his arms wrap around me as he unclips my bra in one movement, the garment dropping, my breasts suddenly loose and free. His arms drop and the hard comfort of his chest leaves me. My eyes flip open.

“No.” He is before me. Staring. Close enough that the shadow is lifted; I can see the reflection of the bathroom light in his eyes. They are tight on me, a warning look in them. “Keep them closed, Riley. For now.”

For now. I release a slow breath. Drop my eyelids until I am back to relying on touch, smell, sense, hearing. I don’t know why I opened them anyway. This way is so much better. I don’t have to worry about the look in his eyes. I can let my imagination go wild. Imagine what I want. Enjoy what I—oh God. A breeze blows, the cool air causing my skin to awaken, the caress of the outdoors making this suddenly so erotic in its voyeurism. I don’t remember which floor we are on. Don’t know if it’s the second or twentieth, but knowing that the balcony door is open before me, feeling the soft brush of his fingers as they return to my skin … it is enough to make my nipples stand on edge, the weight in my pussy heavy with its increased need.

“You are so beautiful.” He almost groans the words, the sentence cuts off my own gasp as both of his fingers circle and squeeze my breasts. Lifting them. I feel the rough prickle of his cheek as his mouth moves across their surface. Wet suction as my right nipple makes its way into his mouth, his soft play of tongue against delicate skin probing and teasing, a low moan coming out of me when he bites the tip of it gently. I sag a bit in his hands, my knees shaking, and my desire to have him making a persuasive argument against the one to have him never stop what is occurring right now. “Wait, Riley.” His mouth moves lower, his hands release my breasts, and I feel the bump of cloth against my legs.

His mouth presses kisses along my stomach until it reaches the line of my dress, and his hands are suddenly at the back of me, fumbling over and then finding the zipper, yanking it down in one movement, and the fabric falls, leaving me one wet pair of panties away from being naked, in heels, before him.

“God.” A reverent whisper from his mouth. A mouth that is wasting no time in moving lower. “Spread your legs a bit.”

I obey. Moaning softly when I feel the press of his finger moving aside the silk and pushing inside of me. One gentle push inside that breaks any chance of restraint I have left. I open my eyes, look down to find him on his knees, and reach down, grip his hair, and pull back until our eyes meet. “I can’t,” I gasp, his finger pushing deeper, curving inside of me, his eyes watching me darkly, the edge of his mouth curving a little when my legs buckle.

Thank God the man listens. He moves to his feet, pulling his finger from me and moving it to his mouth. Sucking on his forefinger, he stares down at me. It might just be the most erotic thing—wait, it is definitely the most erotic thing I have ever seen. I step forward, pull his finger from his lips and replace it with my tongue, the man taking my mouth as if he owns it, his hands gripping me to him, his kiss hard and dominant.

I fall back on the bed, his body above me, knees moving to either side of me as he takes a final pull on my mouth before sitting up, skimming his fingers down my breasts, the lines of my stomach, hooking into the sides of my panties and dragging them over my hips, his body rolling off me enough to free my body from the last bit of resistance.