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“Now,” she keens out. “Please. Oh…yes!”
Suddenly, she convulses around me, and I’m a split second behind her, lava charging through my veins and jetting from my cock.
I’m dying, and it’s the best feeling I’ve ever experienced. My vision closes in on only Harlow. My breath bellows. My body pumps of its own volition—whatever it takes to get closer to this woman. The sensations are like a brick wall slamming me at a hundred miles an hour and flattening me, but it’s not pain I feel. No, she leaves me with the most amazing high. I want to feel it again right now.
Hi, my name is Noah Weston and I’m an addict. Harlow is my drug of choice.
Admitting the problem might be the first step, but I don’t want to recover. In fact, I don’t want to change a thing—except to get more of her. Instantly, I start planning to get as much of this woman as I possibly can.
* * *
The following morning, I sit up abruptly. A glance around tells me I’m alone. The bathroom door is open. There’s no one in the adjacent walk-in closet or on the balcony overlooking the majestic Pacific.
“Harlow?” I call her name in low, experimental tones.
No reply. But I see a gray SUV in the driveway on the side of the house. Did she decide to leave after last night and find a ride off the estate after all?
Damn it.
We had a deal. Why would she suddenly change her mind?
Tossing the sheet back, I grope around for shorts and snag my toothbrush off the bathroom counter, squeezing a dollop of paste from the tube and brushing my teeth as I jog down the stairs. I’ve got to stop her. First, last night we had the best sex I’ve ever had and I’m nowhere near done with that woman. Second, the more I think about her proposition, the more I suspect she’s right. Speech therapy could not only help me, but her—and all the other guys in the league who may be too hesitant to come forward and admit that concussions have screwed with their mental faculties. Maybe I can do more good with my position than win a trophy and a few rings.
At the bottom of the stairs, I spot the powder bath. I also hear the mumble of a distinctly male voice.
Shit. Who is this interloper and what is he doing in my house?
Totally disregarding the fact that I haven’t scrubbed my pearly whites for two minutes, I duck into that guest bathroom, do a quick spit and rinse, then haul ass toward the kitchen.
“I’m fine,” I hear Harlow say to her mystery guest I can’t see around the corner.
She sounds defensive. If I were whoever she’s talking to now, I wouldn’t believe her. Besides, anytime a woman says she’s “fine,” she’s definitely not.
“What does that mean?” he demands.
“It means that nothing is wrong and that I’m perfectly capable of making my own decisions.”
“Five days ago, you were—”
“I know what happened. I don’t need the reminder.” Now Harlow sounds thoroughly annoyed. “I wasn’t all in your business when—”
“My life was falling apart? Yeah, you were.” He snorts. “So I’m not stepping out of yours.”
What is this guy talking about? I have no idea, but I intend to find out.
“Don’t do this,” she implores.
“Do what? Care? You mean the world to me, and I refuse to leave you now.”
My insides seize up. So here’s another guy with a thing for Harlow. I shouldn’t be furious. I shouldn’t even be surprised. If I was one of her exes, I’d be fighting for her, too. I get where he’s coming from. No idea why Harlow let him into my house, but I’ll be damned if he’s staying—or taking her with him. She’s here, and unless she tells me she’s completely in love with him, she’s mine. At least for now. He can go fuck himself.
I storm into the kitchen. Harlow barely has time to turn to me with a gasp before I give my competition a steely glare and wrap my arm around her waist. Yes, I’m marking my territory. I feel possessive. Hey, at least I didn’t lift my hind leg.
Harlow tries to shimmy and slink away. I hold firm.
“Problem?” I growl because I don’t like the way he’s talking to her, as if he has a right to meddle in her life. Hell, I don’t like him talking to her at all.
Harlow glances between me and the competition, who’s got dark hair and a very serious expression. He looks younger than me and he’s definitely dressed smarter. I also notice he’s wearing a wedding band.Fuck. Does that mean Harlow is his mistress…or his wife?
