It had been three weeks since she’d hung up on him.

He’d called her back instantly, and she’d ignored him, eventually turning her phone off. When, hours later, she’d still not been able to sleep for feeling miserable and aching for him, she’d turned it back on to reveal a single text. His final word.

And that was the last time Abby heard from him. No more texts. No more calls. And worst, no more letters. No more little glimpses of his life. No more of that beautiful angular scrawl. No more cher or bébé or béb. No more teasing or flirting. No more of the promise of him. No more him.

She’d wanted to write a dozen times. A thousand.

She had written, more than she would like to admit. A stack of letters piled up in the corner of her desk, each one more ridiculous than the last. Each one edging further into the fantasy that she had been so stupid to concoct from the start.

And then there were the ones that apologized. That told the truth. That begged him to fall for her, the plain, chubby girl who’d never in her life imagined she could tempt a big, brawny, beautiful, bearded bayou soldier who had a voice like sin and a mind like magic and a smile that made her heart race.

The ones where she begged him to find her. To forgive her. To love her.

I love you.

What had she done? He’d said the thing she wanted to hear more than anything in the world, and she’d heard the truth there. And she’d hung up. And those words had echoed through her every day, every hour, every minute for three weeks.

What a total fuckup she was.

Which he apparently realized, because he’d disappeared.

Though, to be honest, she’d hung up on him after he’d told her he loved her. How was he supposed to know it was the hardest thing she’d ever done?

Coward.

She was a coward. Too afraid to put herself on the line for that magnificent man who loved her.

Not her. He loved a lie.

What a disaster.

And so she lived her life this way now, her heart leaping every time her phone rang or she came home to a pile of mail. But it was never him. And she was an idiot.

She would say this, though—her house had never been so clean. Because what else did a heartbroken idiot do in the three weeks after she’d lost the only man she’d ever imagined loving, but clean her house? Every inch of it. Desk drawers and pantries and under the bathroom sink.

Hadn’t her grandmother always said a clean home is a clean mind?

“Maybe this will be the thing that gets all those dirty thoughts out of mine, then,” she muttered to herself from her place half under the upstairs bathroom sink, where she was wiping down the drain pipe that no one but a plumber would ever see.

She didn’t think so, honestly, but a girl could dream.

That, and she was running out of places to clean.

When her phone rang, she extracted herself from the dark cupboard and snatched it from the vanity. Kelly.

She answered. “Hey.”

“What are you doing?”

“Spring cleaning.” Abby gathered up the trash bag she’d filled with mysterious ancient finds that had gone to the dark place beneath the sink to live out their days.

“It’s October.”

“Fall cleaning,” Abby said.

“Well, stop it. Come for dinner. We haven’t seen you since the party.”

Guilt flared. They hadn’t seen her since the party because Abby had been avoiding her sister as much as possible since the party. Since what happened after the party. Since she’d lied about being her sister. Which she had to get over, because Roux had disappeared and the world still turned and she was becoming a ridiculous cliché.

She started down the stairs, trash bag in hand. “What’s for dinner?”

“Malik is grilling.”

Abby crossed through the living room, where Darcy and Bennet were curled up side by side in a patch of sun. “Grilling what?”

“I don’t know. Whatever men grill. If you come, I’ll make pie.”

“Blueberry?”

“Sure.”

Blueberry pie could tempt her to the other side of town, she supposed. Wedging the phone between her chin and shoulder, she opened the door to walk the trash to the bins outside.

She stepped out onto the porch, the crisp October air reminding her that winter was coming soon to the Rockies, and that yoga pants and a t-shirt that read I like big mutts and I cannot lie wasn’t going to cut it for much longer. “I like pie.”

The words were barely out of her mouth when she realized there was a man leaning against the porch railing, not three feet from her. Tall and muscled and perfect.

No. Not a man.

Roux.

Shit. Roux is here.

Her eyes went wide, her heart started to hammer in her chest, and she dropped the trash bag.

“So you’ll come?” The question came from a million miles away, and it sounded like alien tongue.

Because Roux was there.

On her porch in jeans and a navy blue sweater, arms folded over his wide chest, legs extended and booted feet crossed at the ankles, as though he’d spent his whole life there. Waiting for her.

Which he hadn’t done, because she’d come home from a morning shift two hours ago and she would have noticed him.

Just like she was noticing him now.

She would have noticed how big he was, how broad, how he made her feel tiny in the narrow space between the door and the railing. When had she ever felt tiny around anyone?

She would have noticed the lean angles of his face, the white scar that sliced through his left eyebrow, the matching white line high on his left cheek. His long, straight nose and his full, wonderful lips, strong and perfect.

And the beard. His hair was combed back to keep it from his face, but the beard—that beautiful, dark beard, shot through with red—it was glorious. Smooth and soft and sleek, trimmed from the wildness of combat, but thick and pelty and making her itch to touch it. To feel it on her skin.

Her wolf.

All that, and his fathomless brown gaze on hers. Revealing nothing and somehow seeing everything. He hadn’t moved, but he’d somehow filled every corner of the porch.

Of course she noticed him. She drank him in. She’d never in her life wanted to look at another person as much as she wanted to look at him.

“Abby? Are you coming?”

What? Kelly. Kelly was still on the phone. Kelly, who she was supposed to be. Who was supposed to be her. Who was supposed to live here. “I—” She stopped. What was the question? Dinner. Pie. She could not think about pie right now. “I have to call you back.”

She pulled the phone away from her ear and disconnected the call as he came to his full height.

Jesus, he’s tall.

Abby was five ten and she had to crane to see him. “I—” She stopped. Tried again. “Hello.”

He didn’t speak. Instead he closed the distance between them with a slow grace that she could only describe as…predatory. As though he was hunting her.

The thought consumed her. She wanted him to hunt her. She wanted him to catch her. This magnificent man.

She swallowed. Tried again. “Can I help you?”

He stopped, but his only answer was that brow—the one with the scar that she suddenly had an immense, inexplicable desire to trace with her tongue—rising in complete arrogance.

Taking a deep breath, she brazened through. She was Kelly, right? She could be Kelly. “Are you a friend of Abby’s?”

It was the wrong thing to say.

Roux’s gaze narrowed and a muscle began to twitch high on his right cheek. He moved again, coming for her with such conviction that she backed away, over the threshold and into the house. He didn’t hesitate to follow, not looking away from her, not even when he kicked the door shut and reached for her, sliding one arm around her waist and pulling her tight against him, until she squeaked with shock and surprise and a pleasure she could never have imagined.

Even then he came closer, his hands coming up to cup her cheeks and hold her still before he lowered his face to hers, stopping only when his lips were a breath from her, to say, low and deep and sinful, with that edge of accent that sent pleasure and fear and promise rioting through her, “Did you think I wouldn’t know?”

“I—”

He continued, like she hadn’t spoken. “Did you think I wouldn’t take one look at you and know the truth?”

Was he angry? Of course he was angry. He should be angry. She’d lied. She’d lied, and now it was over.

And then he was talking again, the low growl of breath against her lips making her wild. “Here’s how this is going to go. If I don’t get my mouth on you right now, I’m going to lose my mind, so we’re going to do that first, and when you’ve come so hard you can’t remember what you look like, I’m going to tell you all the ways that I’m royally pissed at you for lying to me, Abigail.”

And then his mouth was on hers, hot and heavy and delicious, and she was on fire.

He knew. He knew, and he was here.

And he was hers.

Abby had logged serious hours staring at those lips in the photo he’d sent, and now, in person, they were everything she’d ever imagined, full and soft and somehow firm, too, and delicious. They claimed her just as his hands slid into her hair, tilting her up to him, making her his in every possible way.

And then his tongue was running over the seam of her lips, and she was parting for a kiss she’d been dreaming of for months…for a lifetime. Her mouth opened to his, her tongue sliding against his like silk and sin, sending a pool of need right to her core.

He growled, deep in his chest, and her hands were there to catch the rumble beneath her fingers, itching to strip him and climb him and give herself to him.

All from a single kiss that she knew instantly would be the most important thing that had ever happened to her. Her heart was pounding and her blood was rushing in her ears and his hands were on her and…there was a dog. A dog, up on his hind legs, pawing at them and whining. Roux broke the kiss, leaving them both breathing heavily, and looked down, catching the animal with one strong arm.

“Darcy?”

“Yeah,” she said in a panicked, crazed laugh-exhale as Roux crouched to give the lab a rough scratch behind his ears. Darcy’s long, pink tongue lolled out of his mouth as he fell instantly in love with the enormous soldier’s touch.

Abby knew how that felt.

Because even as he’d lowered himself to the dog’s level, Roux had slid his hand down her arm and claimed hers, as though she might escape if he didn’t hang on to her.

And maybe she might have. Because then he was returning his attention to her, his deep, beautiful brown gaze filled with focus and something else. Something that made her want to run. Something like need—more powerful than she’d ever seen.

It did make her want to run. To him. Or maybe she wanted to run from him. Maybe she wanted him to follow.

When he said, “Bed,” it wasn’t a question.

“Upstairs,” she replied, the word barely there.

He came back to his full height and lifted her into his arms like she weighed nothing at all, and he slid a hand into her hair and brought her lips down to his while she wrapped her legs around his waist, the way it happened in the movies. In her fantasies.

It turned out he was her fantasy, come to life.

They were in her room, the door closed to keep Darcy out, in what seemed like seconds—long, breathless, devastatingly sexy seconds. And then he was setting her on the edge of her bed and coming to his knees before her, his hands running over her body as he kissed her like she was the only woman in the world.

He released her mouth and slid his lips along her jaw to her ear, where he licked and sucked on the lobe until she thought she might die of the pleasure. She gasped his name, her fingers fisting in the fabric of his sweater, and he said, “I knew it.”

She froze at the words, even as he kissed down the column of her neck to the edge of her t-shirt, licking at the soft skin there.

“I knew it the first time I ever saw you in that fucking photograph. Nothing felt right about her…but you…your brown eyes and your big smile…”

She closed her eyes, the words washing over her, making her hot and desperate for him. Let it be true, she thought to herself. Let him want me as much as I want him.

“You made me so hard,” he said, his fingers sliding over her body. “Instantly. All I wanted was to get naked with you. To kiss these lips…” He did it then, long, slow, lingering strokes until she was whimpering. “To get at all this skin.” He was at the hem of her t-shirt, sliding beneath it, his touch like fire.

She gasped. “Roux.”

And then her shirt was over her head and across the room, forgotten. And he was staring at her, memorizing her. She closed her eyes.

“Don’t,” she whispered, the word barely there. He could see everything—all her flaws. He was too close and too focused and too perfect and this exact moment was the moment she’d been so afraid of. The moment that had started her down this absurd path.

“I wanted it to be you.”

Her eyes opened, and she watched him watch her…his brown gaze black with desire, shaking his head as he stared at the edge of her lacy white bra, one perfect fingertip tracing the line of it before he tugged the fabric down, revealing her. He was riveted to her, his throat working, as though he did want her.

Her nipple went hard beneath his attention, and his eyes narrowed on the evidence of her desire, his gaze flying up to meet hers, stealing her breath with the frustration there. “You lied to me.”

Her eyes went wide. “I—”

She couldn’t finish, because he took the tip of her breast into his mouth, and he licked and sucked and worked her over until she cried out and threaded her fingers into his hair. But the moment she took hold of him—held him to her—he pulled away, his hand covering her, kissing up her neck to her ear where he spoke, rough and barely controlled. “You fucking lied to me. All that time, I could have been imagining you.”

He claimed her mouth again, licking deep until they were both gasping for breath.

“I could have been imagining these lips,” he growled against her, the sound like gravel, sending pleasure pooling deep within her.

Her bra was gone, his hands playing at her breasts pinching her nipples until they were aching and straining and desperate for his mouth. Lifting them to him once more, he suckled them, soft and rhythmic, until she thought she might die of pleasure.

“I could have been imagining these tits. These gorgeous curves.”

And then he was pushing her back onto the bed, pressing long, wet kisses to her belly as he slid her yoga pants down, over her hips and past her knees, until they joined her t-shirt across the room.

“These legs…these soft thighs…”

She gasped and covered her face with her hands as he eased her thighs open, his ragged breath and her pounding heart the only sounds in the room. And then he swore, low and dark, and…

His beard.

“Oh my God!” she called out, leaning up to watch him run his beard along the soft skin of her inner thighs. “Roux!”

“You like that, baby?” Over and over, back and forth. “I promised you fur, didn’t I? You promised to pet me.” He turned to press a soft, wet kiss high enough on her thigh to make her gasp.

His low laugh rumbled through her, and then he was gone, and she wanted him back. “Roux,” she panted. “More.”

He tutted his refusal, so arrogant. “I don’t think so. Not right now. I’m still angry with you.”

His hands, again. At her knees. Spreading her wide. Making her blush. She closed her eyes again, lying back on the bed.

And then he groaned like sin. “Oh, cher,” he whispered, the words like a prayer, making her tense—tight like piano wire. “I could have been imagining this pretty pussy.”

He was there, at the heart of her, at the heat of her. Where she’d imagined him every night for months. He shifted, and she felt his shoulders, wide as a house, pushing against her thighs, holding her open and bare to him.

“And you kept it from me. Do you realize how many times I stopped myself from coming to the thought of you? Of that brown-eyed beauty? Of your gorgeous body? Of this glorious pussy?”

And then his fingers brushed over her, light and barely there before they parted her, opening her, revealing her, and he swore low and dark and French, the words a pulse of air on her hot, aching center.

“It was you, all along,” he whispered before he—dear God—he was inhaling, low and long and—

Holy shit had anything been so hot ever in her life?

“I should turn you over my knee for keeping this from me. And maybe I will.” The words rioted through her, making her pulse for him. “Oh…you like that idea, don’t you, baby?”

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“I can see it. I can see how you’re aching for me.” He set one finger to her clit, circling with a barely-there touch, then down to the opening of her, where she ached for him, so much that she thought she might cry if he didn’t stop teasing her. “You’re so wet here. Goddammit…this pussy. This fucking perfect pussy. Cher,” he promised, his accent thick and gorgeous, “I’m gon’ eat you up…until you can’t move for comin’ so long and hard.”

This could not be real.

And then he made good on his promise, setting his tongue to her, licking and sucking, long and slow, with more focus than she could bear. “Roux,” she panted, her hand coming to his hair, her fingers clenching, holding him like he was the only thing in the world—and in that moment, he was.

He growled his response, his tongue working in slow, steady licks as though he could stay there, on her floor, between her legs, in her pussy, forever.

And she might want it—this gorgeous man with his glorious tongue flicking gently over her clit. Too gently. “Please. Roux.”

He stopped just long enough to hook her legs over his broad shoulders and get close. Just long enough to say, his accent thick and hoarse, “Tell me what you want.”

She didn’t even hesitate. Who even was she? What had he done to her? “Harder,” she panted. And he gave it to her, flattening his tongue and rubbing it over her again and again as she cried out. “My clit. Right there. Oh, God.” She rocked against him, begging for more, not even knowing what she wanted, until he pushed one thick finger into her and she gasped at the immense pleasure of it, “Yes. Roux. Please. Don’t stop.”

A second finger joined the first, filling her as his tongue—God, his thick, magnificent tongue—wreaked havoc and she was there.

And he stopped.

Fingers stilled. He pulled back.

“What—”

“Shh,” he said, stroking those fingers once, deep.

She groaned. She’d never made that sound before. “No. Don’t—”

“Shh,” he repeated, “I wan’ look.”

She writhed, lifting her hips against his fingers, slow and relentless and commanding. “Look later.”

He laughed. Bastard. “Non. I wan’ look now.” A brush of his beard on her thighs as he leaned in. A long stream of breath over her straining flesh. “That fucking clit, cher. That little hard clit, just begging for me. I imagined it every fucking night. In the desert, tired an’ dark an’ dirty—thinking of this perfect, desperate, throbbing clit kept me alive.”

She almost came from the words. Almost.

“I thought about licking it, soft and slow.” He showed her what he meant. “And then hard and fast.” And again, until she was crying out and her hips were bucking beneath him, the rhythm of his fingers inside her unchanging. “But really, I thought about sucking on it, baby. Just like this.”

And then he was doing just that. Wicked pulls, quick and unbearable, lips working, tongue flicking against her, unrelenting, like a promise. Like a punishment.

Making good on his vow to make her come harder than she’d ever come before, fucking her with his fingers and tongue while she screamed his name, and she fell apart beneath him. He stayed there, letting her use him, rocking against him, working herself over him, until she lost control of her muscles and returned to the bed, shaking with pleasure. Weak with it. Lost to it.

And still he stayed, his lips and tongue still, his fingers still, until she settled, her fingers unknotting from his hair. He pressed a soft kiss there, letting out a low growl of pleasure when she sighed in response. And then he spoke, low and commanding. “Again.”

“I can’t—”

“Not a request.” He growled against her, licking again, his thick tongue curling around her, working over her, fucking into her, and his fingers were everywhere, painting over all her most secret places, lower and lower as he ate at her again and again, ravenous. Like he’d been starving and she was food.

And she was whispering her own commands.

And he was following them.

And she was coming again and again, her legs shaking and weak from pleasure.

He rose up over her, taking her lips. “So fucking wet. So fucking sweet. Taste yourself.” He licked deep and she did taste it, sweet and tangy and all for him.

When he lifted his mouth from hers, they were both gasping for breath, and her fingers were at his waist, lifting the edge of his sweater, pulling it up over his head, and then he was bare above her—all inked skin and wild heat, like a god.

He was so magnificent—she didn’t know what to do.

“Touch me,” he said, the words coming out like gravel. “Fuck, Abby. I’ve been waiting for you to touch me for months.”

She’d been waiting, too, and when she did they released a long breath together—like they’d been holding it forever. He lowered himself over her, his muscles like solid steel, rippling beneath her fingers as he kissed her again, even as she made for his waist, to the fastening of his jeans.

“I’m going to—“ She gasped when he licked at her neck again.

“Fuck, yes. Take me out.”

She was already unbuttoning him, though how her fingers were working was beyond her, pushing his jeans and boxer briefs down until he was there, his cock hard and hot and perfect, and they were both groaning at the feel of her hands on him.

He thrust into her hands with a long, lush grunt as she explored him, strong and soft, his tip throbbing. She ran a thumb over it, reveling in the precome there, and he hissed another curse and she smiled, continuing her search, finding the heavy sac at the base of his cock, cupping it gently as she bared him, pushing his clothes down over his hips as he growled and swore and held himself above her, giving her enough space to explore him. To torture him.

“Abby.” He leaned down and took the tip of one breast into his mouth, suckling until the pleasure had her tightening her grip and he groaned. “Baby, I—”

“Don’t wait,” she whispered, opening for him, stroking him, setting him to her. “Don’t make me wait.”

He released a long breath and kissed her, a long, lingering stroke of his tongue that made her more impossibly wet. He rocked against her. “You’re so wet. I’ve never felt anything like you.”

“Only for you,” she whispered as he slid into her, a long, slow thrust that had them both moaning in pleasure.

When he was seated to the hilt, filling her perfectly, growling a string of French at her ear, and she was raking her nails over his big, broad shoulders, she thought she would die of the sensation. And then he whispered, in English, “You lied to me and I could have been thinking of this.”

Another thrust, slow and lingering. And another. And another, until she couldn’t bear it. “Roux,” she cried at his ear.

“Tell me what you want, cher.”

“I want you.” No hesitation.

“How?”

She closed her eyes and lifted her hips to meet him. “Hard.”

He gave her a little taste and her eyes slid shut on her moan. “Like that?” And again. “Tell me, baby.”

She was lost, begging him. “Like that. Faster. Don’t stop.”

He gave her everything she begged for, fucking into her hard and hot and thick and gorgeous, and she was crying for more of him with every thrust. And then his lips found her ear again as his fingers cupped her ass, one of them finding that place no one but he had ever touched, rubbing in a slow, glorious, unspeakable circle there, setting her on fire as he thrust into her, long and deep and perfect enough to make her think she might die.

She met him thrust for thrust, arching her back, begging for him to make her come again.

“Please…Roux,” she panted.

“So hot…” he growled, fucking into her, making her ache. Making her pant. Making her want him there, inside her, forever. And that finger—that wicked, wonderful finger—knowing what she wanted even when she had no idea, swirling and stroking and making her wild. “So fucking hot. Abby…”

“Roux, I’m…”

“I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

“I don’t…” The orgasm was coming too fast.

“I do.”

She couldn’t manage it. Couldn’t control it. “I can’t…”

“I can. Take it. I’m with you. I’ll keep you safe.”

And he did…as she came hard around him, milking his thick length with tight, uncontrollable movements, until he was groaning her name and growling his pleasure and joining her, coming in long, heavy thrusts that consumed her, again and again, until he sank into her, above her, around her, weakened and breathing heavily and somehow still protecting her from his full weight.

Weight she wanted. She clenched her muscles around him, drawing a final, long groan as he gave it to her, collapsing to bury his face against her neck. He swore, her nails scoring down his broad back at the sound. “Christ, Abby. That was…” He trailed off, kissing her neck, tonguing the skin there with an electric lick.

He lifted his head, looked down at her with those magnificent brown eyes, as though he was searching for her. She blushed. She’d never been seen so well. And by someone so…

“Perfect,” he said. “It was perfect.”

It was perfect. He was perfect.

Which was the problem, of course.

Because she was not.

She looked away.

“No,” he said, the word stern and commanding enough to snap her attention back to his. His fingers came to her cheek, pushing her hair back from her face as he searched it for clues.

When he didn’t find the answers he was looking for, he pulled out of her, lifted himself from her, leaving her empty and aching, her body desperate for him to come back.

She sat up, pulling the throw at the end of the bed over herself. Missing him. Wanting him. Wondering if she’d ever not want him.

He came to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs off the side, running his fingers through his hair, making her mouth water with every stunning, rippling muscle. There was a puckered scar high on his shoulder. A bullet wound, long healed. She hated it. Loved it.

Loved him.

She loved him.

She reached out to tell him, aching to touch him, her fingers barely grazing his back. He turned immediately, catching her hand in his massive warm grip. Looked down at her. “Are you married?”