It was past midnight, again. Like yesterday, I couldn't sleep. The rest of the house was quiet. I had gone looking for a book in the library—anything to distract me from the constant, low ache between my legs—and instead found him.

Maddox sat in one of the leather armchairs near the window, a glass of whiskey in his hand, reading something on his phone. He looked up the moment I stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind me.

For a long second neither of us spoke.

Then he set the phone down.

“Lock it.”

My pulse stuttered. “No.”

He stood. Slow. Controlled. The same way he had moved that first...