Three Reckless Words: A Grumpy Sunshine Romance (The Rory Brothers Book 3)
Three Reckless Words: Chapter 13

Welp.

It turns out making pizza is a deeply sensual act. Who knew?

I certainly didn’t until Archer led me to his kitchen—enormous and gorgeously modern with high-end appliances, by the way—and pulled out his pre-made dough.

Pre-made dough.

As in, this man made his own dough. Like, from scratch.

Just to check, I prod it and say, “You really made this? From flour and stuff?”

“That’s dough, yeah. All mine. I threw it together a little earlier,” he confirms.

Oh my God.

It almost feels like he’s breaking a cardinal rule of being rich and handsome, but I’m here for it.

I didn’t think rich people like Archer existed when my parents barely lift a finger to prepare their own food. Neither does anyone important in the rapid power rush of DC, where takeout competes with prepackaged meals and artisan chefs for the stomachs of the nation’s capital.

It’s just like that British baking show except this is Archer Rory.

Archer, with his huge tattooed arms and a business that’s doing scarily well.

Archer, with his dark stubble and midnight-blue eyes and thick hair.

Archer, who mysteriously looks like he’s equally at home in a suit working at a desk or wearing a t-shirt while he beats up idiots like Holden.

That Archer made flipping pizza dough from scratch.

“Surprised?” he asks when I continue staring at the dough like it has ancient Sumerian written all over it.

“Maybe?” I laugh and force my shoulders to relax.

Hardly the first time since I showed up.

The things I felt when he walked into the room while Colt and his friends were spouting off about the hornets…

Even now, the butterflies storming my belly haven’t settled down one bit. Neither have the indecent, intrusive thoughts that keep bleeding in every time I look at him.

He stands beside me now, our elbows almost touching, chopping an onion with near professional precision on a bamboo cutting board.

“I’m a single dad, so I’d better know a thing or two about food,” he tells me. “And when I say Colt was fussy as a kid, I mean it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, and not like most kids are. You know, the ones who turn down their veggies and live on nuggets and mac and cheese.”

“I’m familiar, yes.” When I was a kid, classic box mac ‘n’ cheese was my favorite. My mom and her hired nannies had a fight on their hands to get me to eat anything else, including pizza, ironically enough. “What did he like?”

“Grapes. The boy used to eat them by the vine. He’d eat fries, but only if I made them myself with seasonings he liked. Bread, he’d only eat when it was warm out of the oven. Never knew kids could be so damn fussy.”

I smile. “What did you do?”

“Got real good at making bread for one. I also found ways to expand his palate, sneaking grape jelly into his bread and pairing it with healthier stuff.” He snorts. “The first few years were rough.”

“Oh, I can imagine,” I say quietly. “He’s a good kid, though.”

“I’m glad that phase ended. Now I could feed him nothing but chips and salsa and he wouldn’t even notice. The kid’s a bottomless pit, he’ll clean out my groceries in two days if I’m not careful.”

I hide a smirk as I sprinkle flour on the counter and spread the dough.

Archer finishes chopping and he throws the onions in a pan, soon followed by chopped tomatoes, garlic, and a variety of herbs I don’t catch.

I barely think to hand him the containers and pick up a few scraps for the trash. I’m too busy staring at him working.

Open-mouthed, blank-eyed staring.

There’s nothing else in my brain except Archer.

The man can cook. No one who wields a knife with his gracefulness is an amateur in the kitchen.

“How about you, Winnie?” he asks. “What’s your favorite food?”

“Um, pizza?” I say it without thinking. Just as our elbows brush again and I have to focus very hard on not making an embarrassing noise.

Here I am in Archer’s kitchen, making pizza.

There’s an entire expanse of counter space the size of the Arctic Circle around us, but he’s still close enough to touch, cooking up a tomato sauce on the enormous stove with his massive back turned.

“Then you’re in luck,” he says proudly. “This might be my signature dish if you ask Colt. Let’s get started on the stuffed crust.”

Unlike the man standing beside me, I’m no cook.

Don’t get me wrong.

I can make some things like meatballs or cupcakes by following a nice recipe on my phone. But I’m hardly a natural in the kitchen.

I can’t just see something and know how it’ll taste.

Archer doesn’t seem to have that problem. He throws ingredients together without thinking, all muscle memory moving his large hands like the pizza artist he is.

He reaches into the wooden cabinets and pulls out his deep-dish pans.

I follow his lead, helping spread the dough into them, pressing it in evenly. At one point, I step back to look at him, the way his forearms flex as he works.

Dear God.

He’s a walking billboard for sex and he doesn’t even know it. Or if he does, he’s crazy subtle.

I rub my cheek, wishing I could slap away my stupor and wondering how on earth I wound up here and what I’m going to do about it.

What I’m going to do about him.

Neither of us have brought up the kiss yet, but we need to.

Preferably before someone implodes from the simmering tension in the air.

Before I do, I mean.

If we can just clear the air, figure out where we stand, maybe I can get past feeling his eyes strip me naked with every glance.

“Have you always lived around here?” I ask awkwardly, desperate to replace something to talk about besides his hands in that dough, or how much I wish he was kneading me instead.

“In Kansas City or this house, you mean?”

“Both, I guess.”

“Kansas City, born and raised, but we moved in here about… seven years ago now?” He pauses to think, pushing the pizza dishes back. The sauce is bubbling on the stove and he stirs it almost absent-mindedly. “Yeah, seven years sounds about right. I needed a fresh start with Colt after—you know.”

No, I don’t.

But I think I get what he’s not saying.

“It’s a cool house. You have a great sense of style,” I say flatly. I almost ask about his ex-wife, but that feels too much like prying, plus I don’t care to ruin the moment.

Another moment we should not be having, I mean.

“I got lucky. It took a lot of back and forth with my designer to figure out the finishing touches. Even my mother weighed in—she can’t help herself. Thankfully, I didn’t cause her a fit like my idiot brother when he decided to install a massive fish tank in his place.” He glances at me and frowns as I smile.

Those blue eyes hold mine, magnetic as ever, and he reaches up and touches my cheek, skimming his fingers over my skin.

I stop breathing.

“You had flour on your cheek,” he says, but his fingers linger.

For one stalled heartbeat, I think he just might be stupid enough to kiss me again.

Suddenly, no matter how large this kitchen is, it feels too small for us and the ridiculous tension making the air thick enough to chew.

I want him to be stupid.

I want him to kiss me.

Desperately.

I want him to say screw it, push me against this counter, maybe lift me up onto it, and bury my lips under his until I can’t remember my own name.

But Archer exhales a loud, ragged breath and stomps away to a wine fridge, pulling out a bottle.

“In true Italian style,” he says, holding it up.

I force a laugh and gesture to the dishes. “I hate to break it to you, but there’s not much Italian about this. The guy I worked for was on the Trade Committee. He had so many dinners with Italian officials from the EU last year.”

“Chicago style, then.” Humor replaces the hooded darkness of want in his eyes. “There’s beer if you prefer?”

“Wine’s good. I’m not a big beer drinker.”

“If my little brother heard you say that, he’d have your whole life figured out.” He fetches two wineglasses and fills them. “Patton thinks a person’s drink of choice is their whole personality.”

“Better than astrology, I guess.” I laugh. “You get along pretty well with your brothers, huh?”

“They’re complete assholes, but still decent guys when they need to be. We’re closer than we used to be, I’ll admit.” He brings out toppings of all kinds—mushrooms, peppers, red onions, pepperoni, prosciutto, the works—and turns the sauce down to a simmer. “What about you, Winnie?”

“No siblings. Just me and my folks.” I don’t mention how lonely it was growing up in that big house with two control freak parents who were too busy for their daughter.

Mom had nannies from the day I was born, for heaven’s sake. But when I got older, she cut them loose. I think she was too paranoid about Dad having an affair like so many other rising stars in politics.

My childhood was a constant churn of new faces. Superficial relationships and glad-handing and smiling for Dad’s campaign ads as he climbed the political ladder.

More than anything, it was being fabulously alone and learning to cope with it.

Maybe that’s why I like Solitude so much.

I’ve been conditioned to be lonely. I just didn’t think too hard about it until now.

“I wish I had a sister, sometimes,” I say into the silence. Archer watches me intently, and I’m not sure I want him reading any of the deep melancholy thoughts drifting through my head. “You know, someone my age, or maybe a little older.”

“With two jackass brothers, I’d say you were lucky. Siblings are hard work.”

“Brothers are hard, but sisters do stuff together. They can actually bond.” Even as I say it, I know it’s wishful thinking.

Maybe I like the idea of having a sister because Lyssie is basically a sister from another mister, and I always wanted something like that.

“Have you always lived in Springfield?” he asks, shifting gears.

“I mean, yeah. I traveled around a bit. DC and Virginia, you know. Lots of trips across the country and sometimes abroad. I spent a few months in New York once while the boss hobnobbed with his old-money donors.”

I enjoyed it, too, but I don’t think I’d like settling there. It was a massive change, going from a big fish in a small pond to feeling like plankton in the ocean.

New York City eats you up and spits you out, even if you’re a United States senator. If you’re a staffer, you’re total fish food.

After a while, I hated the anonymity in the city, this huge, teeming place where it felt like no one cared. What started out as my big adventure became pure claustrophobia.

Just give me my little house somewhere with my bees, please.

Peace and quiet and cool fresh air.

If I’m lucky, a family to go along with it, and a man to come home to who’s huge and bold and kindhearted, a man like—

No.

You’re doing it again.

Winnie, you are not settling down with Archer Rory.

“My mother liked the honey,” he says, surprising me. “She tried it, actually.”

“That’s good to hear. Have you tried it yet?” I help assemble my pizza, putting way too much pepperoni on top. What can I say—I like some spice and balance has never been my thing.

“Not yet.”

“Not even on toast? Man, what are you doing with your life?” I roll my eyes and cluck my tongue at him.

With a quick sly smile, he opens the fridge and pulls out the small jar. There’s only a little purple left, but it’s beautifully strained, just as bright as I remember.

“If you want to force-feed me, I won’t stop you,” he says deadpan.

Holy crap, is he joking?

But his face is set like stone.

The image of feeding Archer Rory that purple honey hooks into my head and doesn’t let go.

…I guess maybe I could put it on a spoon and pass it over without bursting into flames.

Unless he makes a big show of licking it off.

My toes scrunch like caterpillars.

He wouldn’t dare… would he?

I know I’m being silly, thinking he’d ever want to make me imagine licking it off his hard, punishing body.

Time to put my fantasies to bed and do something less erotically charged.

“I have another thought,” I mutter, practically stuffing my head inside his giant fridge.

I replace sriracha, garlic, ketchup, and soy sauce, and start mixing them together in a small bowl. Finally, I add a dab of honey from the jar.

“We’ll just give it a little drizzle, if that’s okay? Or we can set it aside as a dipping sauce for the crust,” I tell him.

“Sure we can. How did I know you’d replace a way to pair that damn honey with the pizza?” Archer chuckles.

“Hey now, honey goes with almost everything if you try,” I say pointedly.

“Don’t know why I ever thought anything else.”

My ears burn, still stuck on double meanings.

“Smart-ass.” I take another small sip of wine, knowing if I have too much, it’ll lower my defenses dangerously.

“Not the first time someone’s called me that.”

Maybe not, but I can’t imagine many people have insulted him to his face.

The more I get to know him, the scarier he seems, especially with the big dark military tattoos creeping down his arm.

With the wine putting courage in my blood, I reach out and trail one finger along them.

“I like your ink. Says you’ve got a good reason for being such a grump,” I say, and he stiffens. “An eagle and a…”

“Caduceus. For medicine,” he answers roughly.

“Huh.” I tilt my head as I consider. “You were in the army?”

“Special Forces Medic. Almost drove me to medical school when I was younger.” He puts the pizzas in the oven and leans against the counter, facing out into the kitchen.

From downstairs, Colt and Evans yell something unintelligible, probably caught up in their video games.

“Impressive,” I say, watching his face as a shadow crosses it. “How come you didn’t stick with being a doctor? Real estate seems more boring.”

“Because I learned to make the pizza.” There’s a gruffness in his voice that makes me blink.

“Come again?”

There’s a sadness in his eyes now as he slowly looks away.

“I’m not such a hardass about making the pizza perfect just for Colt’s sake. For me, it’s about honoring a mentor—a friend. We called him Big Frank. He was a Chicago guy, and he made the best goddamned pie I ever had, working miracles in mess halls from a few ingredients and MREs. If you tasted it, you would’ve had to strap yourself down not to take flight. He was killed in an ambush. Syria was fucking chaos, too many different sides and special ops the public never knew about. Officially, we were never there when it happened. He took shrapnel to the neck. I tried like hell before we were extracted, but I couldn’t save him.”

My heart crumbles.

Even now, there’s a hint of panic on his face behind the brave, stoic mask.

I see this young, wide-eyed, heroic Archer coming out who’s so human it hurts.

He’s always been like this, I guess. The natural protector, and when he couldn’t do what he does best, when he let his fallen friend down…

God.

“So that’s why you have the tattoos.”

“Yeah.” He nods. “As for the rest of it, why I came back—” There’s a fraction of a pause where he bites back whatever he was going to say. “I had to come home and figure life out fast. Being a father wouldn’t wait ten damn years to finish medical school. I couldn’t be away from Colt that long, not with the situation with his mom.”

He looks away.

I have so many questions. But I’m also not stupid or cruel, and now obviously isn’t the time to pry at his marriage.

“I’m sure you did the right thing,” I whisper.

I hate that my eyes are stinging again.

I’ve always been a huge sucker for these wounded warrior stories, though. It’s the only thing that ever seemed real in politics, the times when we’d show up so the senator could pay his respects to military families.

The flag-draped coffins always tore my heart out.

Especially the ones that came back from the places just like he said—the invisible, background wars and special missions no one thinks about.

The ones where good men die for mysterious causes.

Nothing changes the tears, hot and real and shed by loving families.

Even now, I want to flipping hug him, but I don’t know where the boundaries are anymore.

I just know they’re blurred like staring into murky water, and I kinda wish they’d just get messier.

“That’s really kind, you know. Making food to honor Frank and keep his memory alive. I’m just sorry you had to go through—”

“That was that, Winnie.” He cuts me off. “You can’t change the past, and there’s a certain point where there’s no use in crying about it either. Me, I’d rather fucking eat.”

Somehow, that makes me laugh.

“Well, I’m no expert on parenting, seeing how my parents never did much when I was a kid. But from what I can see, Colt’s a very lucky young man.”

“He’s not a proper man yet, but he’s on his way. More wine?” He smiles and refills my glass. I’m a little shocked when I see I’ve finished it. “We’ll just see how well he handles it once he figures out you’ve moved in.”

Scrunch.

There go my toes again.

And I ever-so-slightly regret the hot honey sauce I mixed up when my body temp must be well over a hundred degrees.

According to Archer, the kids don’t usually stick around to eat with adults.

Normally, they retreat back to their hole with plates piled high with pizza to continue their gaming marathons.

Today, though, they settle around the table.

“This honey sauce slaps,” Evans says as he drags his crust through my sauce until it’s totally marinated.

The purple tint makes it look a little weird, but it tastes yummy.

Oh, and the pizza is incredible.

There’s no doubt Archer Rory can cook with heart and soul.

“It’s an easy sauce to throw together. I think the honey might be a tad sweeter than the usual kind,” I say.

“See, Dad? I told you it’d be big. Don’t you ever listen?” Colt says impatiently, reaching across the table for another slice.

“Yeah, but this is proof,” Archer says. “It’s decent enough to ignore the fact that it’s purple.”

Archer grins at me from the other side of the table.

I wrinkle my nose, biting back a smile.

This is kinda fun, being caught up in a family moment like the kind I never had at home. If we ate dinner together as a family, there was no joking.

Dad would be stuck on work, and Mom would be worrying out loud about her next big dinner party. Or—and this happened more often—dinner was the big fancy social engagement and work project rolled into one fake, miserable event.

Lucky me.

Talking about Dad’s work or Mom’s dress or the stiff, stilted small talk of those dinner parties wasn’t thrilling.

Maybe discussing the nuances of purple honey isn’t the most sophisticated subject, but it’s warm. It’s friendly and authentic and fun.

The two enormous deep dish pizzas Archer assembled go down amazingly fast with five people attacking them. I’m glad I put together some extra garlic bread.

The teenagers are machine eaters, and there’s a weird pleasure from seeing them sit back in their chairs and talk about how full they are by the end.

“Tell me about your wood carving. You’re pretty into it, aren’t you?” I say to Colt as the other two push their chairs back, take their plates to the sink, and scamper back through the house.

“Yeah. Dad helps me sometimes, but I do most of the work.”

“That’s great, Colt.” I nod at the bookshelf behind him, which is decked out with several pieces clearly shaped by his skilled hands.

I see a globe, a scarecrow, a windmill. The last one even has tiny shingles etched on it.

“I’m seriously impressed. How long did it take you to do the windmill?”

“Oh, uh, forever! Definitely a few days to get all the little lines just right. It was only my second time using this new craft carbon knife for precision.” His face lights up.

“Keep it up, no matter what you do for school or work,” I tell him. “You never know when it’ll come in handy—or when it’ll be a ticket to a date with some pretty girl.”

I can’t resist laughing at how he flushes.

“Aw, Winnie, you’re as bad as Dad. That’s what he says all the time.”

“You’re destined to be a ladies’ man, boy. Just not too soon. You’ve got my genes, after all,” Archer says smugly.

My laughter amplifies.

Colt rolls his eyes like marbles, but he grins and laughs.

Yeah, this is new and rapidly addicting.

The warmth, the teasing affection between father and son just reinforces everything I thought about Archer being a good dad in a normal family.

And it’s sweeter than any magic honey when it makes me feel like I’m part of it, rather than the weirdo alien bee-girl dropped into the middle.

Archer holds out a hand for Colt before he goes barreling past us with his plate.

“Hold on, bud. There’s something we need to discuss.”

“Oh, crap. Evans staying over? Dad, I promise you we’re gonna study a bit. You can even call his mom. She asked me to help bring up his math grades this summer before—”

“Not that. You’ve been behaving yourself, so you’re no longer thrown in solitary,” Archer says.

“Oh, cool.” With a huge sigh, Colt stops and leans against the table. “Okay, so, what is it?”

“There’s been a problem with the Solitude house and my other places are booked up. Winnie can’t stay there right now, and since we know her, she’s going to be staying with us for a few days. Not too long, just a temporary fix until we replace her something else,” he says. I can’t thank him enough for keeping my secrets close to his chest.

Colt purses his lips and glances at me. His eyes widen.

The kid isn’t stupid.

He’s thirteen. He probably senses something going on, but I look away before I can blush and give everything away.

“Uh, okay. No problem,” he says quietly.

“Also, don’t tell anyone for now. Keep it between us. Not even Uncle Pat or Uncle Dex or even Grandma. You hear me?”

“Yeah, sure. Because you’re worried they’d get the wrong idea?” Colt asks, a knowing grin spreading across his face.

“Exactly,” Archer clips. “Promise me, Son. I know no good deed goes unpunished, but this time I’m trying to avoid the hit.”

“Gotcha. I’ll zip it, Dad.”

“Keep it down, too, and make sure Bree gets picked up at a sensible hour,” he commands.

Colt nods and sets off to rejoin his friends, pausing in the doorway to look back at us. “Oh, and I meant to tell you, Mom called. She wants to take us out to that new park this weekend to fly my drone. Will that work?”

My stomach tightens.

Archer’s expression darkens, a hint of the grim, angry face I saw with Holden resurfacing again.

Wow.

It’s such a dramatic shift I almost flinch.

Was his ex really that awful?

Not that he’d be alone in the terrible exes department. Holden Corban could probably give her a run for the money any day, but if she’s such a monster, why is he even keeping her around? Yes, I know there’s all sorts of legalities with trying to separate a boy from his mother, but still…

I don’t know the nitty gritty details, I guess.

My parents should’ve gotten divorced years ago, but they stayed together for money and image. I can’t remember the last time they showed each other any affection that wasn’t staged for a photo op.

“I’ll think about it,” Archer says after a moment. “But I should talk to your mother first, okay?”

“Okay.” Colt beams and runs off while Archer stares at his plate, lost in stormy thoughts—and from the look on his face, none of them are good.

It’s late.

Almost midnight, according to my phone, and the house is dead quiet except for the distant thump and laughter of Colt and Evans still gaming. Briana left a few hours ago, saved from any new drama erupting with two teenage boys on a summer night.

Understandable, since I think they both have a crush on her.

I pad across the almost-silent landing, my robe wrapped tight and my hair tied in a messy bun, ready for bed. It’s almost automatic where I’m going.

Same for where I finally come to a stop.

Really, I shouldn’t be here, standing in front of Archer’s bedroom door for the second time today.

The sensible thing to do would be to walk away.

Just go back to bed in the softest robe ever and sleep.

He loaned me one he had left over from a spare box in storage, surplus robes for men and women from their properties, all embroidered with the Higher Ends logo.

I wish it made me saner than I feel.

I wish it stopped me.

But the heavenly robe can’t control my hand when it moves.

I knock.

Gently at first. Then with more force when he doesn’t respond.

I wait, heart beating in my throat, but there’s nothing. No response to suggest he isn’t asleep.

Honestly, that’s fine.

I’m the clueless idiot disturbing him.

I should know better, considering the disaster of the past kisses, yet here I am, rocking up to his bedroom door like I want something to happen tonight.

My toes are probably white from being scrunched inward by now.

I count ten seconds before I turn, ready to race back to my room like the startled mouse I am and lick my metaphorical wounds. But just as I turn my back, I hear the door click.

“Winnie?”

I swivel around. My jaw drops when I see him.

Effing magnificent.

That’s the only way to describe Archer Rory in his tight green army tee and athletic shorts that leave little—yet still too much—to the imagination. My eyes flick to the bulge underneath the valley of his abs for the slightest second.

It’s like staring at the sun, but it also takes crazy effort to push my gaze back to his face.

“Um. Hi.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yes! Yes, everything’s fine, Archer. I just—” I want to fall through the floor and erase your memory of you ever replaceing me like this. “I was just up and feeling a little restless. That’s all.”

He holds the door open for me.

“There’s a view from my balcony,” he says, and when I step past him, he leans over me to shut the door.

Holy hell, the smell of him alone ignites my senses.

If I wasn’t already climbing half out of my mind with lust, his woody, manly, dangerous scent would leave me stranded in crazy town.

For a second, his head turns toward me, and he stares down at me, close enough to kiss.

The air froths with energy.

Oh, this is bad.

My body floods with wicked heat. But just as I think he might close the distance, he pulls away.

I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed.

At least his butt looks great as he leads me through his large master bedroom to the balcony. Just as he promised, the view is incredible, even if it only takes my mind off Hercules incarnate for a few seconds.

The neon lights of downtown Kansas City glow like another world in the distance. The air is still balmy, sticky even, and I can see a few faint lights from ships snaking along the Missouri River.

“Pretty awesome. You can see most of the city from here,” I say.

He rests his arms against the metal railing as he stands beside me, close enough to feel his warmth bleeding through my clothes.

“What’s up with you, really?” he asks. “Somehow, I don’t think you came here to just admire the view.”

“Yes. No. I mean…” God, why is this so hard? I huff out a breath. “I just came to talk. If you want to, I mean. After dinner, you seemed kinda bothered. It’s not my business, but…” I dip my head, not wanting to look him in the face. “Look, I appreciate what you did with Holden. I’m super grateful for all your help, really, and I want you to know that if you ever need an ear, I’m here. For you and Colt both.”

He’s dead silent for so long I wonder if he hears me. I glance up to see him staring at me with a crooked smile, so close and so striking I can’t remember how to breathe.

“What about a mouth?” he whispers, his voice low and gruff and raspy. “Frankly, that would help me a lot more than an ear tonight, Winnie.”

A mouth?

I frown, my frazzled brain trying to parse what he means.

Until he grabs my shoulders.

Until he pulls me closer.

Until he makes his words crystal clear with a demand disguised as a kiss.

Holy hell.

There’s no gentle pleading, not tonight.

No hesitation.

He knows what he wants, and he goes for it.

I don’t hesitate, opening my lips and tangling my tongue with his, matching him stroke for stroke.

My body is so hot and tense I can’t stand it.

And I run my hands down his shoulders, his chest, his stomach, until he groans.

He kisses me again, deeper than ever, his tongue moving against mine with a fury, speaking silent words.

I moan into his mouth so loud it’s almost embarrassing.

But I can feel his erection, thick and hard, pressed against my belly.

Wanting him this bad isn’t a passive thing.

It’s an entire storm, just as demanding as his kiss.

Just as consuming as the feel of his thick, coarse hands running down my sides.

His thumb swipes under my breast, tracing the curve until he winds up to my nipple.

I break away to gasp.

“You’re perfect,” he tells me. “Fucking perfect. Men will kill to be inside you, Winnie.”

Right now, I think he’s killing me.

Because this is what I’ve craved.

Filthy truths pouring from a man’s mouth. From a man who actually cares.

But Archer doesn’t need to sweet-talk me into bed.

For him, I’ll go down willing and eager.

For him, I’ll open my legs and give it all up to a man, not an immature little boy.

My lips tingle from the scrape of his stubble.

Flipping delicious.

When he turns his attention to my neck, stamping hot, rough kisses that pull at my skin when he sucks, all I can think about is how he’ll feel between my legs, the wild contrast of his hot tongue and the animal friction that’s imminent.

Sighing, I press my thighs together and almost gasp at the sensation.

I’m so wet it’s insane.

His hands skim down my butt and his fingers grip my cheeks.

Closer.

Closer, his grip says, and he holds me in place so he can grind against me. The shorts are thin and molded to him, so tight I can feel every inch of him.

Yeah, there’s a very real chance I might just combust and set his house on fire. I don’t know how he’ll ever explain the ashes to the police.

And I’m even more baffled how I’m still standing as he pulls my robe open and sucks, hard enough to mark me, just above my nipple.

I fall against him with another moan, completely in shambles.

“Let me hear you, Winnie. Tell me you want this,” he growls between kisses, sucking and pulling with his teeth.

Oh, sweet hell.

His breath feels furious against my neck, pure dragon smoke condensed into a whisper.

My robe hangs open.

Answering, I undo the knot around my waist, tugging it open.

Sadly, I’m not completely naked underneath, but I sleep in a tank top and a pair of loose, silky shorts that skim the curve of my ass. Not deliberately, but right now I’m glad I didn’t opt for my ratty tee and boring cotton panties.

But from the way Archer growls his approval, I think he’d still love me if I was wearing a paper bag.

He slides my robe the rest of the way off, tugging until it pools on the floor.

My nipples pebble in the night air and he circles a peak with one hand, wrapping his other around my waist, the better to make me a willing captive.

Before I can wonder what he’ll do next, he lifts me up and carries me inside.

I wrap my legs around him, rubbing across his length.

Fuck me, that’s good.

And that’s exactly what I want, what I need—for him to take me now.

No barriers. No slow caresses. No hesitation.

This doesn’t have to mean more than one reckless night. For now, that’s enough.

Because I’ve wanted every sexy inch of him ever since he first walked into the cabin and growled in my face.

He tosses me on the bed.

I land with a bounce and a startled giggle.

When I turn to face him, he’s standing in front of me, all angry god.

He looks down like I’m his property, a feast laid out for his taking.

I’m pretty sure this man is all muscle. Let’s face it, I am.

All mother-of-God, bona fide, delicious man I want to gulp down like cold sweet tea on a suffocating summer day.

“Fuck,” he rumbles, his voice hoarse with need.

“Yeah. Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

His gaze skims down my body now.

I can practically feel the weight of it dragging past my breasts, across my stomach, landing between my legs.

God, if I have my way, he’ll go to town tonight.

His cock jerks in his shorts, and I watch with rabid enthusiasm as he looks on at his offering.

Of course, he’s enormous.

Part elephant.

The kind of huge that I know might hurt a little when he enters me, at least until my body adjusts to his size.

I also know that means it’s going to be the best fuck of my life.

I mean, just look at him.

If there’s anything this guy knows besides pizza and being father of the year, it’s sex.

And weightlifting, I guess. With biceps like his, he could throw me across the room.

Or just pin me down and leave me begging until I pass out.

In one swift motion, he pulls off his shirt, but before he can reach his shorts, I sit up again.

“Wait.” I reach out, running my fingers along the waistband. “Let me do the honors.”

Without seeing his face, I touch him through the shorts. He groans.

“Woman, I didn’t invite you in to tease me,” he says as I run two fingers along his length, feeling it throbbing under my fingers.

God.

I lean in and breathe against it, and he sucks in a rough breath of his own.

“I know.”

“You don’t have to do this. If it’s too much, too fast, we can stop right now, even if I’ll need to spend the rest of the night in the tub, buried in ice.”

“I don’t, Archer.” I smile up at him as I cup his balls. “But I want to taste your come.”

“Winnie—fuck!”

It’s so on.

My brain sticks on all the little details as I pull his shorts down to his knees and open my mouth for the first few inches of his massive cock.

He’s so girthy it’s inhuman.

His abs are granite, inhumanly well defined as he inhales sharply.

His pecs are broader than mountains.

The tattoo on his arm swells as he flexes, and I notice more ink on the right side of his chest.

A poppy, I think, standing dark red against the black of what looks like barbed wire. There’s a date, too.

It must be for his friend. Big Frank from Chicago who never came home, and the thought unlocks something in me.

Doesn’t make me less horny, no—I don’t think anything could stop me from wanting him right now—but there’s this tenderness, too.

Plus, unholy appreciation, because tattoos on a man like this would make any red-blooded woman feral.

I show it by dragging my lips down his cock, dangerously close to gagging when I take him, and I’m still not even halfway down.

Worth it.

So worth it.

“Good girl,” Archer rumbles, sliding his fingers through my hair, holding me against him. “I like how you struggle. Keep sucking. Take what you can.”

With pleasure, I do.

My pussy aches from how intense this is, even when it’s an exercise to keep breathing between the slow, rhythmic thrusts of his cock.

He’s sexy and bossy and so fucking hard I want him to slam into me right now.

I’m so wet, I’ve soaked my little shorts. When he looks down between my legs to see, I know he notices. His eyes darken as I come up for air.

“Will you come in my mouth? What do you want next?” I ask, licking my lips.

It’s not that I need to be commanded, but Archer has such a voice, and it would be a crime if I didn’t let him use it.

When he doesn’t answer, I slide my fingers up his thighs, stopping short of reaching where I know he wants me to go.

On reflex, he thrusts his hips, and I grin.

“You have to tell me, silly.”

“Never had you pegged for a dirty girl,” he mutters, his fist tightening in my hair.

“What do you want, Archer Rory? Tell me.”

He groans. “Just put your mouth back on me. Fuck, I want to taste your pussy. You make me want a thousand things, all hard to decide, Winnie.”

When I pull his shorts fully down his legs, I shiver. His cock leaks on my fingers as I stroke him slowly, engulfing him again with my mouth.

When I lick the moisture off the tip, his other hand fists my hair harder, drawing me into him.

I take him fully in my mouth this time, pushing until he’s back against my throat.

It’s not tender, not sweet, not like two new lovers should be.

This is fully sensual, a concert of skin and moans.

Sex doesn’t always have to be a slow burn. I’m not the kind of girl who expects flowers after letting a man plaster her face.

Of course, that’s what my parents wanted. The good girl, their picture-perfect pawn on the chessboard of money and power.

Mom still thinks I’m shy and guarded, protecting my body like it’s a sin to be wanted. Kept pure until marriage to the dullest man in the world.

If I’d married Holden, I know how it would’ve been. Sex would have been a chore like cleaning the kitchen, the same as our whole lives.

In all the time we ‘dated,’ we never once slept together.

It didn’t take long to figure out he preferred his phone to real women. I noticed when he passed me his phone a couple times to look up restaurants or directions and he had a dozen porn tabs open.

The whole time we dated, Holden never took me back to his bed even once. But being sexually compatible didn’t matter, not when we were supposed to be soulmates politically.

Another pawn.

Another prop.

Another wasted life.

But with Archer, there’s no doubt he makes this feel electric.

This thing between us is unhinged, dirty and demented and volcanic.

We’re teetering on knife’s edge of losing our minds and I love it.

Logically, yes, this is a bad idea we’ll regret tomorrow. But I can’t bring myself to care when he’s gripping my hair and thrusting this hard.

One hand guides my head.

His other slides down my body to my breasts, palming them roughly, possessively.

I lean into his touch, giving him permission to use me.

Any way he wants.

Anything.

Because I’m not the shy little wallflower Mom wanted.

I’m not waiting until marriage, and I’ve had other hookups before, most of them young boys in the DC circles who talked a big game and blew it in bed.

But I know what I like.

And I’m happy to show him exactly how he can please me by pleasing himself.

Archer doesn’t seem to need much encouragement, though.

He groans low in his chest, the sound vibrating through him. He’s not content to sit and take what I’m giving him.

Growling, he tugs at my nipples, testing my reaction, feeling what I like.

Of course, I moan louder the harder he goes.

Soon, I’m a complete mess, sucking his cock, wondering when he’ll fill me until he pulls out and pushes me away.

He eases me back on the bed with azure hellfire in his eyes.

All the better to give him access as he pushes a hand under my shorts, his fingers skimming to my slick center.

Every part of me narrows to that bundle of nerves.

He flicks his finger, feeling how wet I am.

“Fuck, Sugarbee,” he whispers, so guttural this time. Almost like he can’t quite believe his own senses.

He slips a finger inside me, hardly needing to try, and his finger feels so big, filling me already.

I try to think past the raw sensation, focusing on what I’m doing, but it’s so hard. Pun intended.

“You’re so fucking tight.” His hand tightens on my hair, pulling like reins. “Winnie, do you want this? Can your pussy take me?” Then he inserts another finger, and I roll my hips on him, fucking his fingers.

“Y-y-yes,” I stammer. “Archer, please!”

He answers, pushing his dick back in my mouth.

Oh, I could come like this.

Honestly, I might come if he doesn’t stop, even though he’s only just started.

My body comes alive, riding the high of him in my mouth, fingers inside me, Archer all over me even though he’s barely giving me these slow strokes with his fingers.

I choke on a gasp as this seething heat settles in my core.

Another groan rips out of him, and the knowledge he’s close tips me over the edge.

Ecstasy floods me, coming in devilish waves.

I moan around him, losing control of my mouth, my tongue. But I think he likes it because I hear him groan again.

“Archer!”

And I start overflowing.

My vision goes white and the harshest orgasm of my life plows through me.

Coming!

He pulls out of my mouth just before I’m done, holding me in his arms as his fingers work every last bit of pleasure from me. I let my head tip back to look at him, and he wipes spit from my jaw.

“This won’t last long, but it’d be a sin not to use your pussy,” he tells me. His voice is all growl, but his hands are so gentle.

“I… I don’t mind.”

I truly don’t.

It’s not about how long it lasts, but how good it feels while it does. And from what I’ve seen so far, I think it’ll be pretty amazing.

He crosses to the other side of the room while I peel off my panties and wait for him on the bed, splayed out for his delight.

Eyes fixed on me, he unwraps a condom and slides it on.

I’m breathless with awe.

“Treat me like your fantasy girl tonight. It must get lonely without a woman,” I say as he crawls over, pressing me into the mattress without a word. His cock teases my entrance, his big head dragging over my clit. “Rough, hard, whatever you like…”

“You are my fantasy, Winnie. Every honey-sweet inch of you.” He edges himself against my clit again, almost inside me.

I swear, that ‘almost’ is going to be the death of me.

I arch my back, chasing the tantalizing pressure of his cock.

His next kiss is hard and punishing. I love that he doesn’t feel like he needs to hold back.

Not with me, maybe not with anyone. I don’t know much about his sex life, but I also don’t care.

This isn’t about our past.

This is our present.

Our moment.

Tonight was made for us.

When he still doesn’t slide inside me, though, I wrap my legs around him and give him what he needs.

“Please,” I whisper.

“Louder,” he whispers. “Beg louder because I can’t fucking hear you.”

I shiver.

I guess this is payback for wanting to hear what he wants. He needs to be in charge and I like it.

Even though this is new for us, I love the give and take, the frantic chase of flesh and words and explosive passions.

That’s what good sex should be—give and take.

Later, we can figure out specifics.

Later.

“Please,” I hiss again, rubbing myself against him. “I want you inside me.”

With a satisfied smirk, he finally grabs his cock and pushes inside, slowly and firmly.

A good thing, too—he stretches me like I knew he would, almost splitting me open. It’s a good pain, the sensation of being filled so completely I can’t breathe.

I need more.

More, more, more, until he’s fully inside me, and he releases a breath that’s more like a torn sigh.

His soul exiting his huge body, maybe.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, brushing my hair back from my face when he’s finally seated in me to the hilt.

“Only if you stop.”

He chuckles, this gritty whisper through clenched teeth, and then his hips start moving.

Oh.

Oh, God.

Now, it’s my turn to feel my soul take flight.

In all my years, all my messy hookups, I have never, ever felt a cock built like a battering ram.

But it’s not just the wonderful way he wields it with every greedy pump of his hips.

It’s the full ensemble that takes me apart shockingly fast.

The weight of him pressing against me every time he goes deep.

The intimacy, the way he looks at my face like it’s the sunrise.

The unbearable, almost killing friction of his cock moving in me.

This time, when I come, it’s an avalanche.

I clench around him, throw my head back, and let out this hitched scream that splits the night.

And I’m only halfway through when I feel him tense, when those bed-breaking strokes deep inside me suddenly stop and he holds his cock so, so deep.

Archer erupts inside me, pouring himself out with a curse, filling me with a molten heat I swear I can feel through the condom.

Holy flaming shit.

And later, when he pulls out reluctantly and we’re spent, lying there with the dim moonlight streaming through the window, it feels different from the other times I’ve had sex.

It’s hot and sweaty and primal, yes. But as he rolls off me and cooler air dances across my skin, I feel something new.

Without him, I feel empty.

And when he clambers back into bed after disposing of the rubber, tucking me into his side like going back to my room isn’t even an option, the feeling eases.

It’s slowly replaced by this liquid warmth that’s so different from the delirious heat still chasing itself around my veins.

Sleep replaces me quickly in his arms.

But before I go under, I feel his lips pressed against the soft skin behind my ear, a whisper without words.

Winnie Emberly, you are in trouble.

You’re so fucking mine and there’s no going back.