Page 47 of Desperate Games

I close my eyes and there she is—chin tilted high like a goddamn queen, eyes cold and hard like she didn’t just spend the night clinging to me like I was the only thing anchoring her to this planet.

Like she hadn’t whispered my name like a prayer while I was buried inside her, shaking with the effort it took not to go for broke and tell her how much I wanted to fucking breed her right then and there.

Hell, I jerk off regularly to that very fucking thought. And yeah, I’m man enough to admit it.

Picturing Andy swollen with my baby? Biggest fucking turn on ever.

But then—like I meant nothing—she looked me in the eye and tore my dreams apart.

“This was fun. But we don’t have anything else to talk about.”

Bullshit.

We have everything to talk about.

Like how my hands still remember the feel of her hips when I held her down and made her take every inch of me.

Or how my mouth still waters when I think about how fucking sweet she tasted—every inch of her, like honey and sin and something that was always meant to be mine.

God. I wanted to keep her.

Not just fuck her.

Not just make her come until she couldn’t remember her name.

But fill her. Mark her. See her round with my kid. Watch her walk into a room wearing my name and a growing belly—our belly—and know the world would see her and know she was claimed.

Taken.

Mine.

This woman? She turns me into a fucking caveman.

A growling, possessive, unhinged bastard who wants to lay her out, split her open, and plant something so deep inside her, she’ll never be able to forget me even if she tries.

And believe me—she’s trying.

But I see the way she looked back that last time, just for a second, when she thought I couldn’t see. That hesitation in her step.

That flicker of fear—or maybe hope.

She wanted me too.

She still does. I just know it somehow.

And if she thinks I’m going to just let her walk around like she doesn’t belong to me—like she didn’t start something I damn well intend to finish—then Andrea Ramirez is in for a surprise.

Because I’m done waiting.

Done dreaming.

Done pretending this was just sex.

No. This was always more.

And if she thought that was the end?

She hasn’t seen anything yet.