Page 39 of Thornhill Road

He was hard on the outside and sweet on the inside. Any man who preferred home cooked meals because he had a little girl he didn’t want to grow up with a whack relationship with food couldn’t be categorized as anything less than sweet and fatherly, and I totally loved that.

I loved it too much.

I was going to have to find a way out of this.

I didn’t know how, but I knew if I didn’t act soon, I’d fall so hard for him, he wouldn’t just break my heart.

He’dwreckit.

Certain I couldn’t handle any further revelations, I stopped asking questions and focused on eating my dinner. Mustang was not the least bit bothered by this. I knew because he cleaned his plate without saying another word. When he was done, he leaned back against his chair, kicked out one foot, and waited patiently for me to finish. As soon as my plate was empty, he got up, took our dishes, and deposited them in the sink.

Then, as cool as a cucumber, he came back to the table, removed his kutte, hung it on the back of his chair, looked down at me and inquired, “Bedroom?”

We hadn’t gone for a ride on his Harley. I wasn’t buzzing with a desperate need for a release. Yet somehow, this time felt just as reckless as the first time.

This truth didn’t stop me from getting out of my chair and leading Mustang to my bedroom.

While the rest of my house still needed a bit of work, my bedroom was the one space I had managed to fix up the way I wanted.

The walls were painted a subtle cream eggshell, and I had a beautiful, scenic mountain scape framed above my bed. My bed that I loved. It had a simple, upholstered light beige headboard, and it sat high enough off the ground, my feet barely reached the floor if I sat on the edge. The nightstands on either side of my queen-sized bed had matching lamps, and there were decorative nick-nacks on the side of the bed I never used.

My duvet comforter was beige, and my accent pillows—which hadn’t made it back onto the bed in my hurried attempt to straighten up—were tan, cream, white, with a couple sage green pops of color to match the gorgeous chunky knit blanket I always kept at the foot of my bed, regardless of the season.

The house was mine, but this room wasme, and I felt a bit on display when Mustang followed me over the threshold.

The feeling didn’t last long.

When I stopped by the side of the bed and turned to face him, he wasn’t taking in the details of my room. He was removing his boots. Once his feet were bare, he straightened, unhooked his sunglasses from his collar, tossed them onto my dresser, then reached behind his head and yanked off his shirt.

He was just as sexy as I remembered.

No sooner had the garment hit the floor than he was on me.

He ate the distance between us in one step.

He sank the fingers of one hand into my hair—a habit I was already kind of obsessed with—and reached down to grab my butt with his other, hauling me into him as he descended for a kiss.

It was wet, and deep, and sensational.

His hold on me was so relentless, all I could manage to do was circle my arms around his back and try my damnedest to give as good as I got.

I wasn’t wearing any panties, which meant I was soon on the verge of damp shorts when he slid the fingers at my backside up, around my hip, then under the waistband of said shorts.

Two fingers hit my sweet spot, swirled, then continued their decent and plunged.

Oh, god.

It took everything I had to stay upright as he kept at me. Adjusting my grip, I threw an arm over his shoulder and held on to the back of his neck. Then it was too much. I could barely breathe as he stoked the spark he’d ignited within me into a warmth that was beginning to grow.

“Mustang,” I gasped, tilting my head back and breaking our kiss.

The desperation in my voice triggered something in him, because I lost his fingers from inside of me a second after I’d spoken. Then my shorts were falling to my ankles, and all at once I was half naked.

The abrupt shift brought me back to where we were—in my room—in the light of day.

My hands pressed against his hot, perfect body made me feel self-conscious about mine. He’d seen me naked, but that had been more frantic and unstoppable. This time, I wasn’t high from a motorcycle ride, so the voice in my head telling me to stop comparing what I had going on with what he had going on was not louder than the voice that told me I was a six to his twelve. Eight, if I was in kickass jeans and killer heels, but no higher than a six whilst completely naked.

This was why, when he reached for the hem of my tee, I dropped my hands in order to stop him.

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