Page 89 of Desperate Actions

Sammy carries me through the house, moving with unshakable purpose, up the stairs, down a hallway, until we reach a room that looks like something out of my most indulgent fantasies.

An enormous bed.

Floor-to-ceiling windows draped with soft, gossamer curtains, giving the space an ethereal, fairytale-like glow.

The walls and linens are done in warm cream colors, accented with pale green—light, fresh, earthy.

Not the dark, masculine cave I expected him to have.

But something softer.

Something thoughtful.

Something that feels like maybe it’s for me.

And then he drops me onto the bed.

Like a feast laid out before him.

The look in his dark hazel eyes as he rakes his gaze over me from head to toe?

Carnal.

Possessive.

Hungry.

Like he’s about to consume me whole.

I am breathing heavily, my nipples hard as diamonds, my panties soaked through.

And he hasn’t even touched me yet.

But he fixes that real quick.

Sammy reaches for my shirt, undressing me with quick, efficient movements, like he’s done this a thousand times in his head already.

Like he knows my body before ever fully seeing it.

“Turn around, Pixie,” he rumbles.

His voice is a low, delicious command, and I obey without question, heat pooling in my belly as I present myself to him.

My pulse pounds, my skin flushes, anticipation crackling through me as he unfastens my pants, dragging them slowly down my hips, over my thighs, past my legs.

Now I am kneeling naked on the bed, facing away from him, my breaths shallow, my body tense with need.

I can’t see him.

I can only hear the soft rustle of fabric as he undresses behind me, the distant roar of the thunderstorm outside, the way the room has dimmed, the light fading to something deeper, more intimate.

I don’t care about time.

Or storms.

Or anything outside of this moment.

Because all I care about,all I want, is him.

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