Total pages in book: 12
Estimated words: 11411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 57(@200wpm)___ 46(@250wpm)___ 38(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 11411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 57(@200wpm)___ 46(@250wpm)___ 38(@300wpm)
The man just radiates possession.
Ownership.
Want.
And it’s all my desires.
He seals his lips to mine and takes my mouth. Just how I want a man to own me.
I spend so much of my days running hard, fielding on high alert, clobbering fastballs. Lift harder, run farther, do better. My workday world consists of pinpoint moments of precision, speed, and intensity.
At night, during the times when I’m with a man, I want to let go all the way. I want to be led. Hell, I want to be taken.
To give all the way in.
That’s what this sizzling chemistry seems to be about. The push and the pull, the give and the take.
He’s a man determined to give, and I want to take everything he has.
He breaks the kiss, runs his lips along my jaw, travels to my ear. “You taste so fucking good.”
I grab his ass, jerk him against me. “You feel so damn good.”
“I’d like to feel you in other ways,” he says seductively, making my blood heat.
“What sort of ways?”
He nibbles on my earlobe, biting it. “Under me . . . on your knees . . . bent over the kitchen counter. Would you like that?”
Lust charges through me as I pull back and stare into those dark brown eyes, pools of shimmering lust. “So fucking much.”
“Good, because I’d like to give you everything you want,” he says, and his meaning is crystal clear.
“You want to wreck me?”
He growls. “Yes. That. I want that.”
“Same here,” I say, jerking him closer, even closer, so we can grind together, him whispering dirty nothings, telling me what he wants to do to me.
“Toss you on my bed. Get my hands all over you. Make you forget the day,” he says, painting a seductive scene.
I shudder, a tremor running down my spine. This man has my number already. Maybe I’m too damn easy to read. But still, I want that kind of connection and after playing a game all day, at night I don’t want to play games at all.
I lay it on the line. “Don’t want you to be gentle with me,” I say, speaking the full dirty truth.
“I promise I won’t,” he says, and I am so damn ready to say let’s get the hell out of here.
The spark between us is so intense. I haven’t felt anything like this in a long time.
And a need this strong should be serviced.
But in a blur of red silk and blonde hair, a feminine hand lands on his arm. Worry is painted in her clear gray eyes, and it’s such a complete opposite to these flirty, dirty feelings charging through my body that I pause, stop my dance with this handsome stranger of mine.
“Rafe,” she says, her tone wobbly.
Her face is pinched with worry. She speaks something in his ear. The only word I hear is emergency.
Rafe turns to her, concern in his eyes. “Of course, Theresa. But of course I’ll drive you.”
He turns back to me. “I’ve got to take her home. Her father had a fall.”
I blink, then wave a hand to the exit. “Of course. Go.”
He runs a thumb along my jaw. “I’ll be here this weekend. Saturday night. If you want to see me, show up.”
If I want to see him.
I’m dying to see him any time.
To see Rafe. He’s so damn commanding, he has to be a Rafe.
But before I can utter a word, before I can say I’d be here tomorrow if you told me to, he brushes a kiss to my cheek, then weaves his way through the crowd with the blonde.
I watch him go, admiring the shape of his ass, the strength of his back, the wave of his hair as I stand on the dance floor, utterly aroused, and hoping like hell that I can be here this weekend.
As I take a Lyft home—alone—I check the calendar on my phone. I have a game out of town on Saturday.
I won’t be here.
But as I repeat his name over and over, I have a feeling as to who my Lucifer might be.
And how I might know of him.
When I get home and shed my shirt and jeans, I flick the band of my tight boxer briefs, running my thumb along the name of the designer.
Rafe Rodman.
Could he be one and the same?
Only Google knows.
A minute later, Google serves up the answer.
Rafe Rodman, eat your heart out. I am not waiting till the weekend for you. Nope.
This guy knows how to play ball.
3
Gunnar
* * *
So many choices.
With my towel wrapped around my waist, droplets of water sliding down my pecs, I lay out the options on my king-sized bed, a vast array of temptations the next morning.
I consider the phoenix, tracing the illustration of the mythic bird going up in flames. But do I feel like a phoenix today? Nah.