Dear Enemy

All sense of play evaporates. He gets a condom, but his hands are shaking so hard, and he drops it. He huffs out a laugh. “Hell, I’m too worked up.” His hot gaze collides with mine. “Put it on me?”

I try, but I’m shaking too. Softly laughing, we put it on together. His abs clench as I brush a hand over his balls, his dick flexing with impatience. There’s no more smiling. His expression is almost fierce as he cradles my cheeks and kisses me. I feel it in my knees, down my back, in my heart.

Then he’s sliding over me, making room between my thighs. Every bit of him is big and strong. Hard biceps bunch and strain as he holds himself over me, his erection pressed hot against my belly.

He cants his hips just enough to slide through my wetness, but he doesn’t enter me. Not yet. Dark eyes peer down at me. I forget to breathe because what I see there isn’t just lust. Gently, as though I’m a dream, he ducks his head and places a feather-soft kiss on my swollen lips.

“Delilah.”

That’s all. Only my name.

It’s everything.

My arms wrap around the thick column of his neck. I’m surrounded by his heat, the fresh scent of his skin, the unsteady rush of his breathing. I take a small sip from his lips, then tell him what he needs to hear. “Yes, Macon. Yes.”

A breath shudders from him. He holds my gaze, those expressive eyes shining black in the light. The first push spreads me wide. My chest hitches. He fills me in a steady invasion. So thick. So perfect.

And all the time he watches me.

He’s too big for ease. He has to work for it, a little in, a little out, each time sinking deeper.

And still he watches me.

Pleasure pulls tight. And then he’s all in. He holds there, throbbing and shaking.

“Oh, fuck,” he rasps. His kiss is hot and demanding, almost desperate, as if he can’t get enough. “What you do to me . . . you have no idea, do you? How you make me feel.”

“Yes, I do. You think it’s any different for me? Feel my heart.” I put his hand between my breasts. “It’s racing. For you.”

There are no more words. Macon moves, the power of his body undulating over me. We move together as though we’ve been doing this forever, like we already know each other perfectly. Maybe we do.

He isn’t a selfish lover. He gives me everything, touches and caresses with such dedication and attention that I feel cherished. And he fucks with such greedy relish—sucking at my skin, thrusting into me with deep grunts of pleasure—that I feel adored.

But in the end, he rolls onto his back, taking me with him. Stretching his arms overhead, he grasps the headboard. “Ride me, Delilah. Take what you need.”

All that power laid out before me. The high crests of his cheeks are flushed. Sweat trickles down his temples. Every inch of him is hard and tight with lust. I sink down onto his cock, and we both groan. I take my pleasure, luxuriating in his body. I don’t let up until he’s groaning and crying out my name.

We come together, falling into each other, wrecked.

Nothing will ever be the same again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Delilah

I’m hosting a dinner for Ronan Kelly, one of the most powerful restaurateurs in the business. I know this to be true, but part of me has a hard time believing it. For all his fame and business savvy, Ronan is a hard man to pin down. Much like Macon he’s rumored to be both a social recluse yet is adored by many. He is in his midthirties, is the son of Irish immigrants, and has the Midas touch when it comes to restaurants.

And he’s coming to dinner. All because Macon asked him to. I could kiss Macon for that. For a lot of things. I knew sex with him would be good, intense. What I didn’t realize was how close I’d feel to him. Sex is something I understand. It’s pleasure and release. Intimacy is different. I thought I understood it. I’ve had boyfriends. But I knew nothing. Because this thing between Macon and me is changing the very makeup of who I am.

He’s not getting under my skin; he’s becoming part of it. I don’t think I can walk away from him now without tearing a good chunk of myself apart. It’s both frightening and comforting. If tonight goes as planned, my life will change yet again. I’ll be one step closer to my dream. And it’s all due to a text that wasn’t even meant for me.

I’m ashamed to say I haven’t wanted to think of Sam. At all. Sam now equates to guilt. Guilt for not telling Macon about her call. Guilt about sleeping with Sam’s childhood boyfriend. Guilt for even feeling guilty about that. What a mess.