Could I do it without losing myself in the process? With anyone else, I can move through the actions while remaining totally and emotionally unavailable.
But Lorne’s already in my head, consuming my thoughts and controlling the responses in my body. I can’t protect my deepest self when I’m with him.
I know this, but I also know I’ll go to him, because my gut whispers at me to do this. I can make him feel good. That’s what I do, and it’s what he needs.
“Did Lorne come in?” Jake steps into the kitchen, his gaze glued to the pot on the stove.
“He’s getting cleaned up.” I set out a ladle. “Food’s ready. I’ll be back in a bit.”
Instinct carries me through the house as I concentrate my energy on locking away all emotion. If the universe wants to have its way with me, I’ll let it. But Lorne can’t matter to me. It would destroy me if I fell.
When I reach the closed door to his suite, a practiced persona settles over my skin. My expression transforms into that of a temptress, my body an instrument of allurement and seduction.
I become a woman who lives to fuck. She knows what men crave and how to read their cues, from the first look and initial touch to the last body-trembling orgasm. She knows when he wants sweet and demure, mysterious and quiet, or raunchy and vocal. No matter the proclivities, she always delivers, without limits or boundaries.
Lorne’s never met this woman. She has no name, no demands, no emotional baggage or insecurities. She’s the epitome of desire wrapped in sensual flesh. A fantasy of forbidden urges.
He won’t be able to turn her away.
The walls close in around me as I step out of the shower and drag a towel over my fevered skin. My muscles clench against the absence of windows, natural light, and fresh air.
I’m not claustrophobic. I just can’t stand the reminders—the feeling of being shut in, locked down, and restrained in my freedom of movement.
Every time I enter the house, I’m transported behind bars, drenched in rotten air and incessant loud noise.
Ironically, I used to sit in my cell and take a mind trip to this house, longing for the familiarity of its walls.
It’s so fucked up. I know adjustment takes time, but getting there is agonizing.
Doesn’t help that I’m in a constant state of throbbing, pent-up arousal.
There’s only one reason why I’m standing here with a raging hard-on. I should’ve rubbed one out, but over the past week, shooting my load in the shower has only made me more frustrated.
I want her, and that craving won’t go away until I give into it.
Scraping the terrycloth over my face and hair, I amble into the bedroom and freeze.
Raina stands near the door and reaches behind her to turn the lock. Her lashes sweep downward, hooding her eyes as she regards my swollen dick.
I drop the towel and let her look. Christ, I want nothing more than for her to stare, stroke, lick…
Except there’s something off about her.
She looks the same. Same confident stance—shoulders back, a hand on her hip, and legs relaxed with one out at a posed angle. Same curvaceous lips—the corners resting between a frown and a smile. Same devastating eyes—molten brown and seductive. But they’re lacking her usual fire.
That’s it. She wants me, yet she’s unnervingly detached from that want.
“Raina.” I try for a warning tone, but it comes out strangled and hoarse.
All the blood in my brain descends to my cock, gnawing and tearing at my self-control.
She lifts her hands to her head and slowly, sensually slides her fingers through her hair. The motion causes the dress to inch up her thighs and pull taut across her perfect rack. Then she runs those hands down her body, straightening the fabric and taking my gaze along for the ride.
When she glances back up at me, our eyes meet, connect, and communicate. It’s always been written in the space between us—the untamed chemistry, the seed of passion. But now, there’s an invitation to explore it.
Whenever we’re together, we stand toe to toe, voices battling and wrestling, and hearts beating all the faster for it. We’ve been building to this, racing toward the moment when our bodies attack without words.
Nothing needs to be said. Millions of years of evolution carved the message into our DNA.
She and I are meant to fuck.
She walks toward me, gliding one long leg before the other. I remain rooted to the floor, ensnared by the silent symphony curling from her aura. She’s a siren’s song of feminine dips and bends, sensual movements, and dirty intent.
With just the right heat in her eyes, she slides up against me and tiptoes her fingertips down my chest. Her shallow breaths denote her hunger, but the pace is too steady, too deliberate.