RINA

Easton came even closer until he was invading my personal space, his towering frame casting a shadow over me that blocked out what little light was left in the room.

The scent of him—woodsmoke, musky sweat, and raw, masculine heat—wrapped around me like a blanket, suffocating any remaining trace of my sanity.

He looked down into my eyes, his chest rising and falling with a deep rhythm, and then his jaw clenched tight. Really tight. It was as though he was trying to restrain himself from doing something crazy.

"Swear," he muttered, his voice dropping into a register so low and gravelly it vibrated right against my skin.

I...