The moment the tips of his fingers brushed over the tight oversensitive nerves, I cried out, throwing my head back. I didn’t care if this wasn’t a dream. I didn’t care what tomorrow would bring. “Please,” I begged, moving my hips against his hand. “Please, Brock . . .”

“Fuck,” he grunted, his mouth hot against my neck as I felt his finger sink deep into my wetness. “Fuck, you’re tight.”

My body was out of control. I gripped his arm, holding his hand to me as he pumped his finger in and out. My hips were moving faster and he did something with his hand, twisting his palm and it was everything—his mouth against my neck, his hand in my panties, between my thighs, his finger inside me—I clenched and then broke apart, crying out as sharp pleasure shattered my senses.

My body went lax as I slumped down, half on him and half against him. In my chest, my heart slowed and I was barely aware of his finger easing out of me. Sweat dotted my brow as I closed my eyes.

“Fuck,” I heard Brock say, and it was the last thing I heard.

* * *

I woke to my head throbbing and my left arm dead. I was also hot, like I’d been sleeping under a ton of blankets during the dead of summer.

Something furry brushed along the bottom of my foot, tickling me and causing me to jerk my leg. Confused, I pried open my eyes and immediately winced at the bright sunlight streaming into the living room. My head felt like a drummer had set up camp inside and my mouth felt like a desert and I . . .

I was not alone.

The first thing I saw was Rhage sitting on the arm of the couch, staring at me with his tail swishing back and forth. Slowly my gaze traveled up my leg and then got hung up on the very large hand resting on my hip. For several seconds I couldn’t process it, then I turned my head and saw Brock. His profile was relaxed, hair messy and lips slightly parted. The white button-down was wrinkled and half un-tucked, revealing an impossibly flat and ripped lower stomach. My gaze flew back to his face, and it all came crashing back—dinner last night, the two or three shots of whiskey on top of three glasses of wine, coming home and passing out next to Brock.

Waking up in the middle of the night and—oh my God.

Oh God.

Oh God, what had I done?