And for the first time, I knew sleep wouldn’t come until I had him.

Deep. Inside. Me.

I sat frozen on the kitchen stool, my body trembling, my lips still swollen from his kiss. My skin hummed with the memory of his touch, every nerve alive, waiting, begging. He had left me here, shaking, wet, desperate, his command still echoing in my head.

Go to bed.

But how was I supposed to sleep when my body was on reacting this much?

The clock ticked too loudly in the silence. The bourbon glass he’d set down still sat on the counter, catching the dim light. The scent of him—leather, spice, heat—lingered...