Page 54 of A Game of Ruck
Last night was the single most intense, erotic, soul-level experience of my entire goddamn life.
I’ve been with women.Plenty.
But I’ve never felt likethisbefore.
Not even close.
A low, satisfied sound rumbles out of my chest—part growl, part prayer of thanks—as I tighten my arm around the warm, soft, perfect woman curled against me.
Annabeth.
Naked, tangled in the sheets, her thick hair spread across my bicep like a crown of fucking silk.
She’s everything I didn’t know I was missing.And everything I want more of.
I glance at the clock on the nightstand and grimace.
Shit.
We have to get up soon.The alarm’s due to blare any second.The wedding looms.
The act we’re supposed to keep playing.Her family’s fake smiles and cutting jabs.
But all I want is more of this.
More ofher.
We didn’t sleep.Not really.
We kept waking each other up with touches, kisses, whispers that led to more moaning, more gasping, more desperate pleas forplease don’t stop.
Turns out my little Angel is a fucking wildcat.And I am gone for her.
One night and I’m wrecked.
Ruined.
Addicted.
I press a kiss to her bare shoulder, breathing her in like she’s my only source of oxygen.
And maybe she is, because I haven’t been able to take a deep breath since the second she let me in.
She still doesn’t get it.Not really.
Deep down, my girl still thinks this is pretend.
A fantasy.
A good time wrapped in heat and orgasms and sun-soaked chemistry.
But I meant every goddamn word I said when I dared her to trust me.
I want her.
Not for a weekend.
Not as a post-match victory lap.
