I lean into his touch, the sensation so intense that I’m fighting the urge to come. I’ve never experienced anything like this. Never felt such extreme pleasure from my nipples alone.

“Lyle,” I mewl, my pussy throbbing, aching for attention.

“You’re perfect.” His expression is almost pained. “So goddamned perfect.” With that his mouth crashes against mine.

Releasing my right breast, he trails his hand up my chest and around to the nape of my neck, where his grip tightens. With purpose he stalks toward the bed, his lips never parting from mine.

Lust drunk, I fumble with the buttons on his dress shirt for a minute before losing any semblance of patience and ripping it open. The sound of the little buttons bouncing across to the floor sends a burst of adrenaline coursing through me.

“Take this off,” I order when the shirt gets stuck where it’s still secured at his wrists.

The urge to weep is immediate when he removes his hands from my body in order to accomplish the task.

“Better?” He lifts an inquisitive brow while eye-fucking me from a foot away.

Licking my lips, I take a moment to return the favor, savoring the impressive view he’s displaying before me.

The planes of his smooth chest are highlighted by the dim light filtering in from the wall of windows. I’ve seen this man shirtless more times than I can count, but not from this close in many years. The version in my head wasn’t quite so defined. He’s grown up—filled out in all the right places. Broad shoulders give way to long, lean muscle. The desire to trace the dips and ridges of his abs with my tongue has me salivating. And the light dusting of hair that disappears beneath the unbuttoned slacks that are barely hanging on at his waist is a sinful treat I’m dying to explore.

“Incredible,” I rasp. It wouldn’t surprise me to find drool dripping from my chin with how hard I’m staring.

“Glad to meet your approval, Mrs. Livingston.”

“As if there was ever any d—” A glimpse of black ink on his right pec seizes my attention. “What’s it say?” I take a step toward him to trace my fingers over the tattoo. No matter how hard I squint, I can’t decipher the letters in the darkened room.

“It’s a date,” he rasps. “July, 1, 2017.”

“The day you got signed with the band,” I say, remembering it all too well. One doesn’t forget heartbreak of that magnitude—no matter how hard she might try. The same fateful date he proudly displays inked over his heart is forever scarred upon mine.