“Oh my God!”

She went limp, and I finally let myself go. My release was ripped straight from my balls, and with my cock still pumping inside her, I stared down at her.

What the fuck just happened? What kind of spell did this girl weave over me?

And more importantly . . . Who is she?

I had to know.

Because if someone told me she was planted in that bar tonight to entrap me into doing whatever I could to have another taste of her, I’d believe him.

I’d had plenty of good sex. Great sex. But Jesus fucking Christ, nothing like this. Everything else paled in comparison.

Her body was limp when I pulled out, and I couldn’t help but smile. Made a man feel fucking good when the orgasm he gave a girl knocked her out.

My body and brain, both worn down from the past few days of running the gauntlet, wanted one thing before I could have her again—sleep.

I took care of the condom before tucking her under the covers and curling my body around her.

She wasn’t leaving tomorrow until I knew her name and how soon I was going to see her again.

Maybe I was crazy, but this felt a whole fucking lot like fate.

I reached for her twice in the night, expecting the sex to be nothing like the first time, but I was wrong.

It was even better.

Her body was attuned to mine. She rode me until I came, and it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. The next time, I took her from behind, one hand buried in her hair, my possessive instincts out of control when it came to this girl.

I didn’t need to know her name to know she was meant to be mine.

I drifted off to sleep one more time, my fingers tangled in her hair.

When I opened my eyes a few hours later, the bed was empty. I shot straight up and looked around.

She was gone.

I did not fucking imagine last night.

Then I heard boards creak out in the living room.

Fuck, she’s sneaking out.

Not only was I not letting her leave without getting her name, but she had no way to get home.

I bolted out of bed, not bothering with my jeans, and reached the living room. “Hey—”

She whipped around from where she was standing, fully dressed, by the front door. But she wasn’t looking at the door. No, she was staring at a picture below a trophy mount and an antique rifle.

A picture of me, my father, and my grandfather.

Instead of a sated smile, her face was the picture of horror.

“Are you okay?”

She backed away, edging toward the door, and tripped over one of her boots as she reached for the handle.

“You . . . you’re . . . Lincoln Riscoff. Aren’t you?” Her expression was echoed by the horrified tone of her voice.