Page 57 of The Playboy

But despite what I’d just said, I couldn’t move.

My feet were frozen.

My limbs so incredibly heavy.

Why couldn’t I put this note down and join him in the bathroom?

Why didn’t I want to let it go?

Why was everything burning inside my body?

I shook my head, drawing in the deepest breath I could hold, and I carefully set the paper on the nightstand, staring at it for several more seconds before I slowly made my way toward the en suite.

As soon as I walked in, I caught my reflection in the mirror above the double sinks.

What hit me the hardest about the woman gazing back was the expression on my face.

The emotion.

The shock and horror and fear and regret, the combination showing in my eyes and cheeks and lips.

I needed to replace it all with happiness, especially as I turned to Macon.

“Finally.” Both of his hands pressed against the glass wall, his body slick, his dick already hard. “Get in.”

Already naked, I released the air I’d been holding and replaced it with a new breath while I took the remaining steps toward the shower door and pulled it open, joining him under the stream.

He instantly took me into his arms, his face going to my neck, his lips pressed to my skin. “Do you know what I’m about to do to you?”

“Tell me.” My voice was a whisper—that was all I had in me, and even those two words felt like a lot.

“I’m going to start by getting on my knees and putting my mouth right here.” He grazed my clit. “Licking you so fucking hard and fast.”

I should have been focused on his voice.

His presence.

His body that I couldn’t get enough of.

I should have been so turned on that I was wrapping my hand around his dick and pumping it.

Needing it.

Begging for it.

But I wasn’t.

I was lost.

Because I couldn’t stop thinking about that note on his nightstand.

The letters that made up each word.

The words that had been constructed.

The handwriting that was so achingly familiar.

Because it was mine.

---