Page 2 of Mr. Sandman (Country Love Collection #14)

Chapter Two

It made no noise. Triggered no alarm.

I stared at the button, almost wondering if I’d even pressed it because nothing had changed. But just when that uncertainty took hold, I heard a low, firm knock followed by the opening click of a door.

Except it wasn’t a door that opened. It was the bookcase I thought was embedded in the far wall. A bookcase door. A secret door. Later, I could think about how to install one of those in my apartment, but not now.

Not when the most gorgeous man I’d ever laid eyes on walked through the opening.

Tall. At least six foot five. Broad shoulders encased in an expertly fitted and impossibly crisp white button-down.

The top button was undone to expose a perfectly tanned triangle of skin.

Wide chest and narrow waist… it didn’t seem like enough to liken him to a football player; he looked more like…

an Olympian. Part god, part man. Full cherry lips.

An aristocratic nose. And dark waves of hair, thick enou gh that it made my fingers itch to churn through them.

He exuded authority—the kind that was intimidating to me because it was warm and possessive.

Like it was his business to take care of you—like it was his only purpose.

But in my world, being taken care of was a sure sign of weakness, so my first reaction— well, second reaction after my lower parts appreciated this specimen of masculinity— was to balk at it.

To straighten my spine and lift my chin, to let out the invisible barbs that kept everyone else at bay.

“Tara.”

My breath caught. One word— my name— and I was rendered defenseless.

I couldn’t think of the last person who’d called me by my first name. It was always Ms. Monroe. Even the senior partners had simply dropped the Ms and called me Monroe. But it wasn’t the lack of formality that made my lungs stutter; it was the way he’d said my name properly.

He’d said Tah-ra, not Tear-a. And I had no explanation for why my heart skipped a beat. No explanation for why the simple correct pronunciation of my name was enough to make it feel like this heart-stoppingly gorgeous man knew me.

Maybe it was because even people who knew me pronounced my name wrong. Maybe that was why I’d just started insisting on Ms. Monroe— and how I’d taken another unintended step in the direction of solitude.

“Hi.” I swallowed hard and floundered. Somehow, the woman who crafted every closing argument in court on the spot, thriving on the precipice of another victory, was suddenly rendered speechless. “And you are… Mr. Sandman, I presume?”

Obviously, not his real name.

And that was the second blow of vulnerability to my cold confidence; he knew my name, and I only knew his moniker.

One side of his mouth turned up slowly.“Vaughn.” He let the door drift closed behind him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The way he said pleasure promised that meeting had nothing to do with it.

I nodded, and my tongue darted out to drag along my bottom lip.Now that I was accustomed to the warm buzzing of my cells, I realized no one was waiting behind him.

“Where are the others?” I blurted out, wincing at the demanding edge to my tone. Another habit.

His smile widened a fraction before he turned and strode to the small bar cart in the corner of the room, allowing me to pay my respects to his perfect ass with several moments of silence.

“Would you like a drink?”

I blinked twice.

“Yes,” I said without thinking, only to then recall that he hadn’t answered my question.

And neither did he ask what I wanted to drink.

Amber liquid splashed into two glasses. No ice. No mixer. Straight intoxication.

He approached me, his presence commanding the room—and me. It wasn’t until he stood right in front of me, extending me a glass, that I truly appreciated how tall—how big he was. With only inches between us, he obliterated my ability to see anything but him.

“Thank you, but you didn’t answer my question.” I tookthe glass but only held it steadily in front of me, refusing to bring it to my lips and join him in a sip.

God, his lips were perfect. I watch Vaughn roll the liquid through his mouth, letting the aged whiskey casually coat his tongue before he swallowed.

He lifted his hand, skating it along the side of my neck—following the thrumming track of my pulse until he reached my jaw and captured my chin between his fingers.

“They’re here,” he rasped. “Watching.”

Watching? That wasn’t what I asked for.Disappointment began to slice through the warm knot in my stomach.

“I don’t want them to watch. That wasn’t what I wanted?—”

“Enough,” he snapped with a growl, and for some reason I obeyed, letting all my protests collide at the top of my throat as his head drifted toward mine.

My eyes fluttered shut. At the last second, I felt the rush of air as he veered to the side and rested his lips against my ear.

“I know what you need, Tara.” Tah-ra. “I read your request. I know you’re afraid to not be in control because you think it means you aren’t powerful.

I know you’re afraid to let loose because you think you won’t be able to be put back together.

I’m here for you. We’re here to worship you—to fulfill your fantasy. ”

I hadn’t written all that in my request, but somehow, it was what he’d read. And he wasn’t wrong. I shivered, his low rasp like warm honey drizzled along my spine, comforting and sweet and sultry.

“And I won’t let you get in your own way,” he murmured and then drew back, towering over me once more with a sharp glint in his mahogany eyes.

His fingers stayed firm under my chin, holding my head up as a prisoner to his regard.

“Now then, you will listen and obey like a good girl, do you understand?”

My breath hitched, a bolt of heat striking my core.

“Yes.”

He hummed low with approval. “Perfect.” He dragged his thumb over my bottom lip. “Because only good girls get three cocks.”

I inhaled sharply, feeling my core clench with want.

“Now, finish your drink while I wait on you.”

I was tempted to throw back the whiskey in the glass. One big, burning gulp to get this started. But I didn’t. I savored it like I was savoring him. I noted every nuance of Vaughn’s expression, absorbed the symphony of his muscle movements, and relished the sound of his voice.

“Sit.” He nodded to the tufted bench at the end of the bed.

I lifted my chin but listened— obeyed. Sinking onto the plush velvet, I took another slow drink.

“Do you always dress so buttoned up?” he asked casually even though his stare felt like he was stripping me bare .

“These are my work clothes.”I owned enough power suits to make Hillary Clinton jealous.

“That wasn’t what I asked,” he reprimanded, setting his glass of whiskey on the small table next to the mirror and unbuttoning the cuffs on his shirt.

My eyes widened a fraction with each inch he rolled it up, revealing strong forearms laced with veins. Oh my .

“Yes. I always dress like this.” My voice sounded like it was run through an aerator, a breathy quality infusing each syllable.

Buttoned-up suits. Button-up pajamas. I went from one suit of armor to another.

My mouth went dry as he approached me, instantly sinking down onto his knees before I could even tremble at the power dynamic of him looming over me.

He reached for one ankle, peeling my stiletto from my heel and setting it on the floor. But he didn’t return my foot to its original spot, instead, he firmly massaged the arch and then ball of my foot, working out the tension that always collected after a day in heels.

“That feels incredible.” I sighed softly, and the color of his eyes darkened with lust.

“Good.” He took his time, massaging me for another couple of seconds before lowering my foot to his thigh, the muscle hard underneath me.

“Do I get to ask you something?” I wondered if that was allowed.

Vaughn picked up my other foot with a smile. “Anything.”

Anything .

I didn’t have time to be overwhelmed by the prospect; I wanted to get straight to the depths of the handsome stranger who was going to fuck me.

“What are you afraid of?”

I’d learned you could tell most things about a person by what their biggest fear was. It revealed priorities. Vulnerabilities. Character.

My other shoe hit the floor and the delicious foot massage started.

“Not being enough.”

My jaw went slack. It was hard to make sense of the fact that this seemingly perfect man was worried about not being enough, but perhaps the most critical quality of insecurities was that they were irrational.

“Which is why I can’t wait to make you scream… make you come all over my tongue.” His wolfish grin took a decade off his features… and took my breath away.

He placed my foot down, both my feet now resting on his thighs. But that wasn’t what had my attention. What had my attention was the glaring bulge of his cock as it strained his suit pants.

Holy…

I bit my lip, feeling my mouth go dry. “ Did I need more than one man?” morphed into “Could I handle more than one man—more than Vaughn?”

Before I even realized what I was doing, my foot inched toward his dick. I wanted to feel it—feel that it was real. He chuckled low, and instantly I stopped.

“Go ahead, Tara.” Again, Tah-ra.

The dose of control made my blood boil, and I slid my foot the rest of the way until it flattened over his cock.

His very, very big and very, very real cock.

Vaughn’s low hiss made my core clench with anticipation. This didn’t seem real—how much I could ache for this.

My stomach flipped as I dragged the ball of my foot along the length of his big cock. I almost made it to the tip before he slid my foot to the side, inching himself forward between my legs.

“Not yet,” he informed me, his eyes never leaving mine as he reached forward and traced the collar of my shirt down to the first button. “You’ll get me, sweetheart, but not until you’re ready.”

My breath hitched when the button popped free, and I forced myself to swallow.