It was that guy from the wrong side of the tracks, and she had fantasized that she was the pampered princess who had no idea how to handle him, how to tame him, but was desperate to try.

The problem was, she was, in reality, also the one from the wrong side of the tracks, as well as the wrong side of the blanket. She wasn’t pampered or spoiled, and he was far too dangerous.

His thumb raked over her nipple, suddenly shocking her with the burning pleasure that lanced from the sensitive peak to the swollen, saturated bud of her clitoris.

Her vagina clenched.

Her juices were spilling along the sensitive channel, slicking the bare lips, because yes, she did wax. The dampness gathered and built, preparing her for his touch, for his possession.

And she couldn’t stop it.

She couldn’t stop him.

He began turning her in his arms, eroticism filling the night, the scent of dark cherry and spice from the cigar he had been smoking wrapping around her senses. One hand slid into her hair, clenched in the damp strands, while the other wrapped around her back and dragged her to him.

She stared up at him, watching the usually icy gray-blue gaze darken and flame and swirl with heat as her lips parted.

In that second, just as she was certain she was going to feel his lips against hers, feel the kiss she’d ached for, dreamed of, fantasized about, the harsh, strident buzz of his cell phone suddenly shocked her back into awareness.

Eve jerked away from him, her breathing harsh, staring at him in disbelief as something dangerous, something dark and sensual flashed across his expression a second before that tilted smile curled one side of his lips.

“Run, little lamb,” he whispered. “Hurry and escape before the big, bad wolf gobbles you up.”

She turned and did just that.

Rushing into her room and quickly closing and locking the door, she glimpsed the light of his cell phone suddenly flaring on as he answered the call, casting his expression in sharp relief.

A chill raced over her body.

As he stared at her, as the glare of the phone’s light revealed the shadows and contours of his expression, a flash of pure trepidation rushed through her senses. In his face, in his eyes, she saw hard, certain determination.

He had let her get away this time.

He had let her get away each time he’d been close in the past two and a half years.

The next time . . .

She wouldn’t be nearly so lucky—the next time.

TWO

It was so hot in the room, she was dying.

Or was she so hot she was dying?

Eve tried turning the AC down, hoping the additional cold air would help cool her body, but she wasn’t quite lucky enough for that to help.

This was killing her.

What the hell had she done to deserve this? To want a man, to ache for him until it felt like her body was on fire, and to know—know to the tips of her toenails—that allowing herself to have him would only end badly.

There were some men a woman just knew weren’t good for her. Brogan Campbell had the potential to be just such a man.

It was there in that cynicism that wasn’t quite hidden. The mockery that lingered at the edge of every smile she’d ever seen on his lips.

He watched the world as though he knew all its cruel, bitter secrets and merciless games. He knew them, practiced them, used them.

Not that he was a deliberately cruel person, she didn’t think.

Oh, hell, no, she was taking that damned thought back. Only a cruel, merciless, coldhearted, soulless man could have done to a woman what he had done to her outside.

Fists clenched in the blankets, she fought the need to relieve a little of the tension. Just marginally. Just enough that she could survive the aching burn in the depths of her pussy.

She’d never wanted a man like this. What the hell was up with it?

All he had to do was be in the room to make her crazy to have him touch her, and now it was just going to be a hundred times worse. As far as she was concerned, she simply didn’t deserve the torture.

She was aware of her fingers loosening, releasing the blankets beneath her and moving to her lower stomach. Aware of it, but helpless to stop it.

She had to get up in less than an hour, dress, and fix breakfast for a dozen guests who took the “breakfast” part of “bed-and-breakfast” very damned seriously. And that didn’t count the occasional friend of her mother’s who stopped by. When she entered the kitchen there could be more orders waiting than the ones Piper and her mother collected from the guests’ doors each morning.

Mercedes Mackay didn’t run the typical bed-and-breakfast. Along with the regular breakfast fare, guests could choose how their eggs were prepared or if they wanted no eggs at all. They could request toast over biscuits, grits over gravy. Each plate was prepared individually and brought out rather than all the food laid out on the table or a buffet set up.

Breathing out roughly, she let her fingers push beneath the thin camisole top she wore. Her other hand pushed beneath her shorts.

Her nipples were swollen tight, so sensitive she had to bite her lip to hold back a moan as she gripped one between her thumb and the side of her forefinger. Rolling it slowly, exerting enough pressure to make the little tip burn with sensation, she fought to breathe through the pleasure.

The fingers of her other hand pushed beneath the elastic of her panties, sliding over the small area of curls that covered just the top of her mound before pushing further between her thighs to find the saturated folds of her pussy.

She was so wet, so sensitive and swollen that her own touch sent a rush of tingling sensation sizzling through her womb. Capturing her swollen, throbbing clit between her thumb and forefinger, careful to keep the hood covering her clitoris between it and her fingers, she began to work the swollen bud slowly, gently.

A whimper slipped past her lips as her hips lifted involuntarily, jerking beneath her own touch as she imagined Brogan’s fingers there.

His touch would be firmer.

Tightening her grip on the tender bundle of nerves, feeling her pussy clench and weep in need, she caressed it slowly.

She wanted to push her fingers lower.

Simply stimulating her clit didn’t satisfy her anymore. Once she found her release, her inner flesh still pulsed and ached, demanding penetration. Demanding something she’d never allowed herself. Because the clitoral stimulation had been enough—

Until Brogan.

Arching her head back, she rolled her hips beneath her touch, sparks of heated pleasure rushing through the swollen knot of nerves as the stimulation worked her clit closer to release.

“Oh, yes,” she whispered.

She closed her eyes, keeping in her mind the image of Brogan bending over her, his hand between her thighs, his fingers working her clit, stroking her ever closer as his lips surrounded her nipple. He would suck it firmly, she decided. Hungrily. He would draw it in with a demand that refused to allow a protest.

Not that she would want to protest. She wouldn’t.

She would hold him to her, feel his tongue lashing at her nipple as his fingers worked her ever closer to release. He’d have no mercy. He’d push her hard, then hold her back, make her beg for ecstasy.

A moan slipped past her lips before she could catch it. She was rife with desperation and ever-increasing need, and the sound reminded her that the burning demand was only growing.

“Yes,” she whimpered again. “Oh, yes.”

She was close. So close she could feel the burning flames beginning to pulse and rage, the whipping sensations surging through her clit, building.

She was only seconds away.

A heartbeat—

The harsh blasting ring of her cell phone had her jerking, shock pulling her fingers from between her thighs before she could stop herself, cutting her release off as it had just begun to build.

Gritting her teeth, a strangled cry of frustration escaping her lips, she jerked the phone from the table next to her bed without checking the caller and connected it with a frustrated flick of her finger.

“Do you know what time it is?” she snapped at the intruder. It was too damned early for anyone important.

“If I hear one more of those little moans”—Brogan’s low growl shocked her into disbelief—“then I swear I’m going to pick the lock on your door, come in, and fuck you until you can’t move. Until it’s all either of us can do to breathe, let alone mowing the grass as I’m supposed to later, or to help your sister cook breakfast for a houseful of guests. Are we clear here?”

“You can’t hear—”

“I know,” he snarled. “I fucking know what you’re doing, dammit; I can feel it. Just like I always know what you’re doing over there. Every fucking time you masturbate, I swear I can hear those breathy little moans you make, and if I hear it one more time, Eve—”

She disconnected the call.

Jumping from the bed, she grabbed her clothes and rushed into the bathroom, dressed, and hastily applied the necessary makeup before pulling her hair into a ponytail. Moving quickly back to her bedroom, she pulled on her sneakers, tied them jerkily, then rushed to the door.

She peeked out the door to the hall, saw no one, then hurried from the room before closing her door carefully behind her.

She was certain she had managed to escape.

She knew she had.

As she moved to pass Brogan’s door, it opened with a snap and his arm jerked out, gripping hers with fingers of iron and pulling her into his arms as he turned and lifted her, pressing her against the wall inside his room as he pushed the door closed, trapping her there with his more powerful body.

Before she had time to do more than gasp, his lips covered hers, bold, heated, hungry, and demanding. He took the kiss she’d been dreaming of and instilled an urgency she’d never imagined in the erotic daydreams she’d had.

She couldn’t help but wrap her arms around his neck, her fingers pushing into the strands of hair that grew long over his nape and clenching to hold him to her.

Her lips parted, feeling his tongue lick over them before he took a quick, hungry taste. Tilting his head, he slanted his lips over hers as the kiss became deeper, harder. Dazed desperation filled her, the need for more of him growing in her, clawing at her senses until she was shaking with the surging force of it.

“Fuck!” His head jerked back.

The gray-blue color of his eyes was more blue now, gleaming with hunger, with lust as he glared down at her, his expression accusing as they both fought to just breathe.

“What the fuck are you doing to me?” His head lowered, his lips brushing against hers again, then immediately returning to the deep, hungry kisses of moments before.

That was fine with her, because she couldn’t get enough of them.

The simple act of lips meeting should never explode through the senses and render self-control a thing of the past, she thought hazily. There should be some measure of control, right?

A hard knock at her bedroom door beside his had them jerking apart again.

The world was conspiring against her.

First his cell phone, now some moron at her bedroom door.

“Eve, are you there?”

Her eyes widened. Swallowing tightly, she jerked her gaze to Brogan’s, certain disaster whipping through her senses at the sound of her brother Dawg’s deep voice.

Brogan laid his finger against his lips, then, catching her hand, pulled her to his patio doors.

Opening one side, he stuck out his head, looked around, then pulled back.

“Go,” he ordered, the softly voiced command harsh as he stared down at her with naked lust. “Get the hell out of here before it’s too late.”

She could hear Dawg knock again. His calling out her name a second time, his voice impatient, spurred her to do just as Brogan ordered.

Glancing back at him one last time, she rushed to the porch before turning away from her room and heading quickly to the front entrance. If Dawg was there, then her mother had opened the front doors.

Turning the corner to the main porch area, she saw she was right. The front doors were thrown open, the glass storm door revealing the hardwood entryway and the wide, curving staircase that led upstairs.