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He’s so annoying. Tempted to punch him, I grip the table harder. “No. I’m not saying it again. You’re starting to really piss me off.”

I can’t believe I’m playing this game with him, but it’s apparently what he wants because he fucks me. Hard and fast, just like he loves while whispering, “I love it when you get pissed off.”

I’m on fire, all over, inside and out.

“If you want me to stop, just tell me.” Amusement touches his lips when I begin to squirm, and I think he’s referring to more than just us having sex.

“Don’t fucking stop,” is my only reply, my fingers gripping his hands, which were placed securely on my hips.

Ridge tosses his head back. Peeking over my shoulder, I watch his heaving chest, straining as he moves.

The sensations are heightened further when his face contorts in pleasure, and I crash too, his own release following. Only he doesn’t come inside me. Instead, he pulls out, rips the condom off and finishes on my back.

Barely able to draw a breath, I have no words. All I have are shortened gasps, trying everything I can do to keep myself from hyperventilating. It’s the best sex of my life. I’m not lying. I want to cry with how good that felt, how badly I needed it.

Ridge moves away, hands me a towel and then flops himself on the bed in the back of the trailer. I follow him after I clean my back off and he brings me flush against his chest, his lips lingering on my shoulder. I find so excitement in the fact that he’s still trying to catch his breath.

“That was fun,” I breathe, swallowing and then letting out another forced gasp.

He kisses me again, grinning against my lips. When he draws back, his knuckles brush over my cheek gently, his eyes fluttering closed.

When I look over at him, his eyes remain closed. Maybe he’s still awake, but his features seem relaxed, as if he’s already asleep or just getting there.

Like a creep, I watch him sleep.

I don’t know why, maybe it’s because my already broken heart’s swelling at the thought of feeling something more than hate since Austin, but it makes me anxious. And I can honestly say anxiety isn’t a feeling I enjoy. It makes my nauseous. My heart has suffered enough the past few months. What if this doesn’t work out? Can I really survive another broken heart?

I don’t want it to be. I don’t want to share his heat. I don’t want another woman to experience the intensity of this burn he gives me.