Morgan

"Ready?" Paige knocked on the bathroom door.

I touched the corners of my mouth, cleaning the lipstick lines. "Almost."

"Well, hurry. Brody's meeting us there."

Pushing aside my makeup littering the small surface, I palmed the counter around the sink and waited for my glucose reading. The only perk of working at Dr. Schaeffer's office was decent insurance coverage, including my new, digital monitor.

Tapping my fingers, the light shadowed the dent marks lingering on them. In the past three weeks, I'd been bitten six times. And I wasn't wearing candy-flavored gloves.

Maybe it was a sign I shouldn't be a dental assistant. The number of jobs I'd shuffled through in the past year was damn embarrassing. The only thing worse was my social life—Not even the bigger city improved my disastrous dating history.

Nothing was clicking.

Except for my monitor. Eighty-four. Releasing a slow breath, I was leaving my insulin here.

The last thing I wanted was a repeat of last time when security confused my syringes for a different kind of needles. Nothing like being accused of smuggling drugs into a benefit for the charity your sister's boyfriend owned.

Normally, I would've questioned why they'd brought me, but standing over my braless, boyfriend-less, soon-to-be jobless, insulin-deficient state, their motivation was clear on their concerned faces.

They felt sorry for me.

And I wasn't speculating. My sister had tossed the dress I now wore at me and said, "Get dressed, you're coming too because we feel sorry for you."

Faking enthusiasm, I opened the door and posed against the frame with my head tipped back. "Ready."

"Looks good." Concern overshadowed my sister's appreciative scan of her dress. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

Physically, I was the closest I'd ever get to fine, but her sad smile was like looking in a mirror. Part of me couldn't believe it'd been a year since selling the bakery and all the aches associated with losing it threatened to return.

"It's okay to talk about today."

My chest tightened as I swept past her and picked up my purse. Talking was the last thing I wanted. Selling the bakery needed to happen. Everything else that hadn't happened since then was depressing.

A year ago, Brody graciously taking in both was supposed to be temporary. My sister had reunited with her happy ending while I...hadn't changed. The only things permanent in my life were diabetes, library books, and the ass groove I'd carved into his sofa.

"I'm fine," I assured her disbelieving expression and grabbed my latest escape off the kitchen counter, a hockey, why-choose romance story. My breasts shifted, requiring adjustment as I stood upright. "Let's go before my boobs fall out."

"Please tell me you're not bringing..." Paige's hand intercepted the book going into my purse. "Pucked by the Goalie to the benefit?"

"Why not? Give me one good reason."

She tapped on the headless man's abs. "There's ten right here."

"Why do you think I picked it?"

"I should've known you weren't actually interested in hockey." She surrendered my book and grabbed her purse. Of course, we couldn't get out the door without her judgmental pointing finger. "Two drinks max. And, before you huff at me, we're not having a repeat of last week."

"Stop." Once again, she was overreacting. Sure, I'd indulged in a few beers at Brody's game—It was the playoffs—and got a little woozier than usual. All straightened out once we got home...and I took two insulin shots. "I was fine."

"Fine?" Whirling around so quick her skirt spun, her expression shifted into full know-it-all mode. "You almost passed out! I just...don't want anything to happen to you, that's all."

You're my family, her eyes begged.

"Don't worry," I assured and pushed her out. "I'll behave."

***

Just like last year, the fundraiser was a total snoozefest. Bloated self-importance polluted the air. Wealthy men eyed me like a sidepiece, while their actual sidepieces sneered when their dates weren't looking.

As if I'd entertain someone twice my age. A little age gap never hurt or, in the right fantasy, hundreds of immortal years, but not someone my father's age.

Brody and Paige entertained the silent auction table. His hand rested on her back, thumb swiping subtle arcs up and down. Such a gentle giant.

And...again... I was alone. Even from across the room, the third-wheel pain was real.

Parting my lips, I tipped my glass' end higher than my chin. The Prosecco's sourness didn't slide back easily, requiring a hard swallow and searing my throat in a cold burn. Thanking the waiter who collected my cup, I eyed the dance floor.

Situated in the middle of the room and flanked by a string orchestra, the only people dancing were couples who wanted everyone's eyes on them. Their not-so-discreet room checks made me roll mine.

Shimmying my boobs back under control, I adjusted my dress and entertained a second drink. It was like holding a glass of liquid poison, but today's anniversary reminders were impossible to ignore.

Hearty laughs at the bar drew my attention. Three suited men, all large and stocky, gathered. One sat on a stool. Hunched over, his wide, broad back strained his black suit. His chestnut hair was pure wildness, barely contained where its ends were tucked under the collar.

As if sensing my attention on him, he turned his head.

Holy ravenous mountain man.

Sharp forehead, straight nose, cut jaw—His profile was gorgeous...along with what little wasn't hidden under a nest of dark hair. Plush lips framed by his mustache and a beard bristly on the ends like it'd never been trimmed consumed his face. Feral-dark eyes, glinting like obsidian under the dim lighting, glared around as if he hated everyone for existing.

A heaviness, like life had kicked his ass, made him seem older. The bubble of personal space his gruffness created was interrupted by his friends, slapping his back and laughing at whatever his twitching lips released. Slamming his palm on the bar, the smack jolted me with an internal clench.

Another empty glass and my feet brought me closer. His aura was like a shroud of negativity protecting whoever he truly was. Resting his elbows on the bar and nursing his beer, his sleeves bunched between large arm muscles. Long fingers took longer strokes up and down the neck, I wasn't sure if he imagined it was his dick or wanted to crush it into shards.

The kind of fingers that'd wreck me inside out, and I'd thank him for it.

A thrill surged me closer. Pushing through the heated bodies, I focused my gaze on the one man here who could make tonight interesting.

Connor

My armpits were soaked in sweat, my wallet complained about the guilt-trip donation, and I couldn't drink this beer fast enough. Or break it so I could leave already.

"Incoming, twenty-one o'clock."

"It's—" I corrected Bugsy's misuse of military time when I saw her.

She grabbed the room's attention, marching over with intention blazing in her pretty blue eyes and tits bouncing in the deep plunge of her black dress. Adorable blonde freckles splattered across her nose and cheeks like sun blotches. Dull blonde hair, but her eyes carried the most brilliant, deep blue as if she wore sapphire contacts.

Locked onto mine as if she saw no one else.

"Incoming, Smitty."

I took no shame in admiring her killer body, but her steady gaze captured my attention. The bold spitfire came right up, breathing hard, and took my hand with a glide of silky fingers. Mine, the hand attached to my best 'leave me the fuck alone' vibe. Her other enclosed around my beer, my dick twitching as if she'd grabbed it, and set the bottle on the bar.

"Dance with me."

The tug on my hand wasn't a request but sent a funny surge through me. An electric zap of energy surged straight south.

A sputtering spray erupted on my left. "Him?"

Thanks, Bugsy. My wooly, hobo appearance wasn't a good look, but my scraggly, itchy beard wasn't coming off until my streak snapped.

Her walking in place, straightening my arm but not moving forward because I held my ground, made me smile and rub my lip. Stubborn bird.

"One dance," she challenged with an over-the-shoulder smirk. No hesitation or fear presented in those incredible eyes. She was the perfect mix of confident recklessness and charming seduction. "If you can keep up."

Up wasn't the problem. My dick was there. Fully hard. She wasn't taking no, so I untucked my shirt. Public decency and all that shit.

"Alright."

One grasp around the curve of her lower back lit a pilot in me. I led but she kept pace, melting the dance into two. Gorgeous up close, her hips moved as fluid as water, damn near entrancing me with every tandem step.

Despite our size difference, she never broke eye contact. A wild energy burned in hers, injected with pain as if she'd received bad news before the event. The possibility struck too close to home, so I didn't ask.

One roll of my hips settled it. I was fucking her tonight. The sooner, the better.

I leaned over and caressed her ear with a breath. "Let's get out of here."

It wasn't a question, and the rushed words felt unfamiliar as soon as I'd said them. As if someone else spoke them, but no one existed beyond those deep blue eyes. It was a rude request, but her presence tripled my impatience to leave, her grip tensed on my shoulders like someone who needed a release as much as the restlessness tearing through me.

A million better ways to ask existed, but she could walk away. Instead, those blue eyes sparkled, and her lips formed a coy smile. She felt the electric pull too.

"If you can keep up."

The husky version of her voice had my dick throbbing harder. Hearing the orgasm version became a quick need, not a want.

Taking advantage of the hotel's convenience, I got a room, and we swapped mutual terms in the elevator—protection always, strings nonexistent. Whatever tonight offered made me drunk on my dick's intentions, and I palmed the room's wall around her. Desire crackled like sapphire flames in her gaze.

"Name," I demanded.

"...Taylor."

She gave off a vibe of lying. Fake names left a sour taste in my mouth, and I grunted the last name I'd seen, the desk guy who'd sold me a box of condoms while she'd used the bathroom.

"Jim."

The ways I'd ravage her sinful body were endless. I needed my hands on her as soon as possible but settled for smashing my lips on hers. A sour edge of Prosecco coated her tongue, but her natural taste was the real addiction, and I dipped in my tongue for more.

Pleasure lulled my eyelids half-closed. It wasn't a gentle or emotional kiss. Our lashing tongue strokes were fueled by desperation. Desperation of what we needed, and proof of what was coming. What we could offer—all we had to offer.

Totally unlike me, our kiss-sealed deal was reckless, exhilarating, and sensational.

Before I could ask if she held second thoughts, her eyes flicked open. By their fiery intention, her sinful smile scorching a path under my skin, and her pinching grasp around my waist, she needed this too.

"You want this?" Doubt cracked her voice. "Me?"

Her hesitation flared irritation in me. She had no reason to doubt how much I wanted her. Beyond want, need strained my dick to tear through my pants, and a collective pulse throbbed through my body.

I grasped her neck, cupping enough pressure to angle her chin and force her gaze on mine. "I want you."

Three words obliterated her doubt. She burned me in one look from under her lashes.

"Looks like it's your lucky night."