But a million lifetimes of imagining what men look like out of their business wear could never have prepared me for this.
Owen’s body is hard, powerful, and thickly muscled. He strips the last piece of clothing from his skin, leaving him bare—and leaving me breathless.
Maybe it’s the heat of the bath or wear of the day, or maybe I’m finally realizing why Victorian women were always fainting.
Owen undressed—nude and bare and so fucking hard for me I can hardly stand it—is making me so lightheaded I think I might need some smelling salts myself.
They don’t make men like this anymore.
So when he moves toward me, I spread my legs for him.
There will never be another Owen Westbrook.
Not for me.
Not for anyone.
So tonight, whatever happens…
I have to make him mine.
“Do you want this?” he rasps.
His voice is scratchy and rough. It sounds like he’s fighting back something—something dangerous just beneath his surface that’s threatening to break free.
I can see it in his every movement. His every step as he approaches the tub. I can see it in the careful way he lowers himself into the water between my legs and in the way he hesitates before pressing his body to mine.
He’s holding himself back. Even now. Even when the only thing I’ve wanted to scream from that very first moment was, ‘YES! YES! FUCK ME, OWEN WESTBROOK! YES!’
“I want this,” I tell him instead, nodding my head and easing my ankles behind his thighs. Then, because I mean it, I add, “Please.”
“I don’t want to hurt you, Mira.”
“You don’t have to hurt me,” I whisper back.
It’s not the truth.
I kind of want him to hurt me.
I want him to spit in my mouth and gag me with my panties, fill each of my holes up with his cum and get me pregnant with like, a billion gorgeous billionaire babies.
But I also want him to hold me against his chest. To be soft. Sweet. To move inside me in ways I’ve only imagined during the steamiest scenes of R-rated movies.
I want him to wreck me. To ruin me.
And I want him to take me in his arms and make me whole.
“It might hurt no matter what,” he warns. “You’re a virgin, Mira. And I’m…well.”
Well is right. He lowers his body until it’s flush with mine. My breasts are crushed delectably against his chest, and his cock…
God. His fucking cock. It slips against my pussy under the water, so hard and thick and stiff and—fuck.
Long. You know what a ruler looks like. You can estimate twelve inches in your head. But until you’ve had one pressed against you, settled between your soft, sensitive pussy lips and rubbing against your virgin cunt…
Owen is big. Impossibly big.
He might not want to hurt me, but be might not have a choice.