“I’m sure I’m already damned, baby.”

Her nipples poked through the red silk even further. Fuck. I was done for. I had to have her. Had to—

I picked up my jacket from the couch and put it on. I couldn’t look at her again, or I’d grab her and fuck her senseless. If she wanted me to leave, I’d better do it now.

I closed my eyes and cleared my throat. “Remember, we have a dinner date tomorrow night.”

She widened her eyes. “Are you kidding me?”

“Not at all, sweetheart. You can have my dry-cleaned shirt delivered to the office.”

“You are something.”

I smiled. “Nothing I haven’t heard before. Now I need to get the hell out of here before I bend you over the back of your couch.” I headed toward the door.

But she stepped in front of me.

32

Lacey

I was nuts. Completely nuts. Rock Wolfe was being a class A douche, and I was blocking him from the door.

After I’d told him—how many times?—to get out of my apartment.

My entire body quaked. He was hard as a rock. His bulge was impressive, and I knew what lay beneath that fabric. I knew it. And I wanted it.

Maybe we didn’t have a relationship. Maybe we’d never have a relationship. I could at least fuck him. I was already ripe for the picking. I had to squeeze my thighs together to ease the ache in my pussy.

I felt so empty, and I longed to be filled.

By Rock Wolfe.

This was a guy I’d let screw me in my office after I’d known him for about two minutes. Lacey Ward didn’t do things like that.

Except that she did.

When Rock Wolfe was involved.

I wanted him. Ached for him. I’d never known a longing so intense. It scared the hell out of me, especially when the object of my longing was such a shithead.

God, but he was a gorgeous shithead—a gorgeous shithead who knew how to rock my world in bed.

He’d had a haircut. I missed his longer locks, but now he looked like he could be walking the runway wearing the latest Dolce & Gabbana. Or sailing in a black speedo in a cologne ad. David Gandy had nothing on Rock Wolfe.

Those shoulders, so bronze and toned, so broad. His biceps large, but not from the gym. I’d bet Rock Wolfe had never set foot in one. No, his muscles came from honest labor in the outdoors. He’d earned them. His forearms were corded and sexy. And that chest…

Without thinking, I walked to him and brushed his jacket over his shoulders, letting it land in a puddle on the floor.

His skin was warm.

Hot.

That chest, those abs, and the trail of black hair leading to…

The bulge.