Page 130 of Westin

His teeth score my shoulder, his hand tightening on my throat. My head spins.

“The first time I met you, I could see those pretty tits under your dress,” he pants. “If it had been one day later, I’d have fucked you up against the hallway wall.”

I moan, my pussy clenching around his cock.

“What you did…wasn’t much better,” I manage.

“And you liked it,” he breathes. “You loved what I did to you.”

Pleasure lights up like a match.

He’s right; I loved it.

I loved that he was older and dangerous, that he hung his pistol on the bedpost before fucking me, even though he had no business doing that. I used to close my eyes, spread my thighs, and touch myself to the memory of him taking my virginity.

God, I’m just as bad as him.

I orgasm hard, wetness slipping down my thighs, lips parted, shaking in his arms.

“That’s a good girl,” he says. “Come, you beautiful slut.”

He’s close, I can feel his pleasure approaching. I can hear it in his quickening breath, the way it hurts when he bottoms out, in his narrowed gaze. He loses a bit of his humanity when all he can think about is his own desire.

I reach back to push him off me, but he grips my wrist.

“Westin,” I pant. “Please, pull out.”

He falls over me so we’re both on our hands and knees.

But he doesn’t stop.

My stomach goes cold.

“Trust me,” he says, his voice a low growl in my ear.

His hand covers my mouth. My heart pounds. I’m not sure I should trust a man who admitted he wants to get me pregnant. Then, my mind goes back to the amendment.

He promised.

High off fear, I let him ride that edge, knowing if he doesn’t remember his humanity, we’ll be broken in the morning.

He takes me hard, his hand over my protests. I’m moaning, maybe as aroused as he is by the prospect of breaking the rules.

But then, at the very end, he comes back to me. His body leaves mine as he turns me on my back. Then, he falls over me and his mouth captures mine. Warmth spills between our bodies, pooling on my stomach. He groans against my tongue, and when our kiss ends, he stays close, like he wants to breathe my air right from my lungs.

“Have me, darling,” he whispers. “Trust me.”

I don’t know what he means.

“Yes, sir,” I whisper.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

WESTIN

The next morning, bright and early, I head down the mountain in my truck. I stop in town and get a dozen red roses. Then, mind blank, I drive until I pull up outside a two-story house with blue shutters at the edge of South Platte. It’s nine in the morning. All the lights are on, and I can see the fireplace burning through the window.

I step out and head up the front porch. A familiar cinnamon scent wafts through the door. It always smells like that.

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