Every Little Thing (Hart's Boardwalk 2)

Perceptive of her. Hot as fuck.

Bailey Hartwell liked a little dirt in bed.

No lily-white princess.

Loyal. Fierce. Protective. Kind. Strong. Funny. Sassy. Sexy. And goddamn perfect for him in bed.

Vaughn stared at her beautiful face, at her swollen lips, flushed cheeks, and he wished she would open her eyes. He wanted to see those stunning green eyes look up at him, soft, loving, full of desire.

He wanted it because he knew he’d never again see that look in her eyes after this moment. Because now he knew for a fact that he was in love with Bailey.

And he was going to break her heart.

“I never dreamed it could be like this between us.”

He had to stop this now.

As if she heard his thoughts, Bailey’s eyes fluttered open. At first she seemed confused and then those gems drifted up his shoulders and over his face.

They softened.

They grew tender.

They filled with desire.

Vaughn memorized her expression, imprinting the most beautiful image he’d ever seen in his life on his brain, and he cursed himself for being a fucking swine whose heart was big enough to fall in love but too small to stay in love.

Relationships just weren’t for him. He knew that. And he didn’t want to lose the way he felt for her.

Not Bailey.

She’d hurt him and he’d hurt her. The last time that happened he nearly destroyed a woman. Relationships were just too fucked up, and he was thirty-six years old. He’d lived the bachelor life too long to change it now.

That’s why giving in to temptation made him such a prick.

“Hey,” she whispered. “How long did I drift off?”

“Not long.”

At the flatness of his words, Bailey tensed beside him.

Vaughn rolled away from her and off the bed, striding into the bathroom to dispose of the condom. When he walked back into the room he kept his gaze toward his clothes strewn across the floor. He could feel Bailey watching his every move.

“Is this the part where you tell me this was a mistake?” she teased, though the words were tinged with bitterness.

“Believe me, it was.” He glanced up at her and wished he hadn’t.

She was sitting up, holding the sheet protectively to cover her naked breasts. All that glorious hair of hers, the color of the horizon at sunset, spilled around her shoulders.

Jesus.

Now she was turning him into a fucking poet caveman.

“You weren’t drunk,” she argued.

“No, not on alcohol.” He flicked her a glance as he pulled on his underwear and pants. “It was a rough night. We got carried away on adrenaline.”