When dinner is over and our guests are leaving, Ronan Kelly pulls me aside and says he’d like to work with me. “We can discuss terms, but you’d be head chef, full creative control with the menu. I’ll be responsible for the capital and promotion.”

“I have a place in mind,” I tell him, trying to hold in the urge to jump around and squeal. I tell him about the location and my idea for it.

“We can go take a look next week,” he promises.

And like that, my dreams are all falling into place. I’ve never been more terrified. Because when you truly want something, it will hurt that much more if it gets taken away.

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY

Delilah

“I want to move.” Delicately shaking, slickly sweating, I strain against Macon’s bulk. It’s no use; he has me pinned to the chair, his cock thick and pulsing deep inside. And not fucking moving.

He grins down at me, a drop of sweat trickling down the side of his flushed face. “Not yet.”

Slowly, too damn slowly, he circles his hips, stretching me, making me ache.

“I need to come,” I whisper. Whine. Plead. It’s all the same. Every inch of me throbs. Pleasure is a tightly drawn bow within, and I need that snap of release.

His grin fades, replaced by intention. “You will. When I’m ready.”

“Sadist.”

He nips my earlobe. “You love it.”

I shudder as that glorious dick of his eases out, making me feel every hard inch, only to slowly push back in. Too fucking slowly. I’m writhing on him, and he loves it. Dark eyes glint as he works me.

Naked in the sun and sprawled on an armchair that barely holds us, he’s been fucking me with a steady deliberation designed to drive me out of my mind. And though I’m a pleading, panting mess, I love it too.

God, he’s gorgeous. Endless muscle and tan skin beaded with sweat, flush from exertion. His expression is slack, hazy with lust. It sends licks of pleasure along my skin. Panting, I reach up and touch his jaw, trying to draw him near. He complies, dipping his head. Our mouths meet in a lazy, deep kiss, an exchange of air, messy exploration of lips and tongues.

He groans, shivering. Not unaffected. Just so very good at torturing me.

In. Out. Pull. Push.

“Macon,” I whisper into his mouth. “Please. Fuck me.”

He freezes, and then with another groan, all that power and need breaks free. I can only hold on as he goes hard and deep. The chair scrapes along the floor as he pounds into me. Every thrust impacts my swollen, sensitive sex. Pleasure builds and builds until I’m keening, my eyes closed as though I can somehow hang on to the feeling forever. But it breaks over me in a shimmering wave.