My thoughts come to a screeching halt. I do not need to impress Cav Westman. He’s nothing to me. And I can prove it right now by opening the door. He’ll see exactly how much I don’t care about his opinion.
Before I can change my mind, or look down at my shirt to make sure I’m not sporting any stains from yesterday’s coffee, I reach for the dead bolts and unlock them before I twist the doorknob and tug.
As soon as the door is open, I know I’ve made a terrible mistake.
Through the peephole, he was marginally distorted. On the billboards and movie posters plastered to the sides of buses in the city, he looked like a total stranger. But Cav in the flesh?
Devastating.
I lose my grip on the door and it swings open.
How does he not look older? No new lines bracket his mouth or crease the corners of his eyes. Instead, a new scar curves along his jaw, giving him a sexier, more dangerous look. His shoulders are impossibly broader, making his hips seem even narrower.
His hazel eyes flash as he takes me in—at least they haven’t changed. Today they’re more tawny gold than gray or green. Guessing what color they would be was part of the game I played with myself before. His dark brown hair is sexy and disheveled, longer than the buzz cut he had before, but everything else is the same. Worn jeans, a plain T-shirt, and scuffed boots. Strong, bold features that many a man would find impossible to carry off, but are the reason millions of women would line up to have Cavanaugh Westman’s babies.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper, reminding myself that I no longer have some naive fantasy of being the one for Cav.
His gaze returns to my face, and I know his inspection of me can’t be nearly as flattering as mine of him.
I’m waiting for him to say something . . . anything. Like an apology or an explanation for disappearing three years ago, but instead I get something completely different.
His hands drop to the button of his jeans. “Based on your ad, the inspection isn’t quite complete.”
If my jaw could drop to the floor like a cartoon character’s, it would.
Oh. My. God. I never saw what he was packing before, only a grazing handful the one night I finally got bold, but he put me off, promising me a night that never happened.
I stand like a slack-jawed moron and force my gaze to his face.
“What are you doing?”
His wicked grin—one he uses so rarely, even in the movies of his I’ll never admit I’ve seen—wipes away the three years between our past and present.
The hiss of the zipper comes next.
I keep my gaze on his face as his eyes dare me. To look or to stop him, I’m not sure which.
“Apparently you’ve changed your requirements for wooing, baby girl.”
The endearment on his lips brings back another wave of memories, but the flex of his bicep against the sleeve of his T-shirt steals my attention.
Oh. My. God.
He’s gripping his cock, stroking it, isn’t he? All I have to do is look down, and I’ll have more than one question answered.
“You know you wanna look.”
The dare is there again. And he’s right. I want to look. So I do.
Sweet Jesus.
Oh. My. Hell.
Well, let’s just say Cav knocked that requirement out of the park. The sight of his long, thick cock in his big, capable hand sends heat rushing south through my body, pooling between my thighs. My nipples, sans bra, strain against the material of my shirt. Cav’s gaze drops as well—to my chest.
The room pulses with a desperate intensity. Hanging between us is the night we never had. The one he walked away from.
I have two choices. Take what I want, what I asked for, or hold on to the rejection he dealt me three years ago.
My brain short-circuits on one thought—life is short, and you never know if you’ll get a second chance.
So I step forward, wrap one hand around his neck and the other around his cock, and kiss him for everything I’m worth.
I groan into Greer’s mouth as she grips my cock just above my hand. Taking charge of the kiss, I cup her jaw with my free hand and tilt her head for better access.
Perfect.
God, she’s never looked more beautiful than she did the moment she opened the door. Totally and completely Greer. Real, not like the fake women I constantly meet in Hollywood. None of them compare to her. It ain’t like you can compare a Chevy to a Ferrari.
And speaking of sweet curves . . . I release my hold on my dick and run my free hand up her side.
Mine. The taste of Greer on my lips and her body in my hands unleashes a wave of primal possessiveness. She’s not the girl who got away; she’s the one I walked away from. Life doesn’t always give us second chances, but this one is mine and I’m taking it. And her.
I groan into her mouth again. The heat and lash of her tongue drag the sound from me. Fuck. I need more. Now.
Apparently I’m not the only one.
“My bedroom. Now.”
Greer’s voice is husky, and my cock is still wrapped by her hand as she jacks it. God, I’ve been dreaming about this moment for years.