Graham puts his fingers into the waistband of my panties and yanks them down, then he’s on his feet. My heart hammers against the walls of my ribs.

I can hardly control the trembling in my legs, in my arms, in the center of me. His touch is like fire. His touch is like ice. And I want more of it.

He strips down, right there in front of the sofa, and for the first time, we’re equal.

He might as well be carved from marble, his muscles are that defined, and my brain tries to make sense of it. Why was he only a secondary figure while his brother ran for the presidency? If I were behind a camera, he’s all I’d want to see in front of it. The line of that jaw. Those strong shoulders. The nip of his waist into abs so defined I can’t stop myself from running my fingertips down the ridges, and then lower—

“God, you’re—” He’s magnificent. Eight inches of hard, flawless cock. Eight inches at least.

“God has nothing to do with it.” He takes my hand in his and wraps it around his length. Power. That’s what I’m holding in my hand. Sheer power.

And I want it inside me.

No ambiguities. No pretending. I want Graham Blackpool to fuck me silly, because that is the only way I can get closer to him, and I want that. I need that. I can’t explain it; I can’t find the words, with my pussy hot and clenching for him already, but there’s something about him that draws me in like a black hole. I can’t get away and I don’t want to.

He runs a hand over my hair and down to my jaw, a certain amusement on his face. “Do you still want to hurry?”

His tone is almost teasing, but I see through it to what it is—an open door. If this is too much for me, he’s giving me an out.

I don’t like that.

“Don’t be such a gentleman all the time.” I squeeze him harder and a muscle in his jaw twitches. “I want this.”

Graham stops being a gentleman.

He crushes his lips to mine so hard I rock backward. He catches me before I can fall to the sofa and pulls me forward, his cock sliding between my legs.

“That’s it,” he growls in my ear. “Get it all wet. You’re going to need it.”

This, of course, only makes me hotter, wetter, and I am becoming the kind of woman I never thought I’d be—writhing, panting, begging him for more, even while a bright, cold nervousness flares in my gut.

Will he even fit?

He’s thick and hard and longer than I’ve ever seen. I’m wound so tight that when Graham does turn us, pulling me on top of him as he sits on the sofa, I gasp in surprise. It’s heaven to let his hands tell me what to do, to spread me apart over him, to make me straddle him. This is what I’m good at. I’m good at following the rules. I’m good at obeying. Even when the person in charge is Graham Blackpool, America’s most reckless playboy and my fake fiancé.

He takes my jaw in his hand. “Brutal honesty.”

“Yes.” I hiss the word over my pounding heart.

“Are you afraid?”

“I’m nervous you won’t fit.”

He bends to kiss me again, the tip of his tongue flicking out to caress my bottom lip, and he strokes two fingers between my legs. “You’d be surprised.” Then he neatly breaks the kiss, tapping the small of my back. “Up.”

I rise on my knees, creating space between us, and Graham positions me over him.

“Come back down, sweetness.”

Hands on his shoulders, I lower myself toward that eight inches of perfection, my entire body singing with anticipation. Oh, God. Oh, God.

His crown makes contact with my opening, and I tense in his hands. His green eyes lock on mine and my face heats—this is so much more intimate than I thought it would be. “Relax.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. “No. That’s not—that’s not what I want—” The words are a confused mess in my brain. All I know is that it’s wrong. I don’t want to be coaxed. I don’t want to be convinced. I want to be—

Graham is all muscle, all movement. He turns me in his hands, turns us, and then I’m on my hands and knees on the sofa, ass in the air, gripping the armrest for dear life. Those same hands spread me open, spread me wide, and I tremble before the shame, before the hot embarrassment that makes me want him even more.

Two fingers against my slickness, pushing in. “This is mine now,” Graham says, as casually as he might say that he’d bought a new car.

“Yes—”

He replaces the fingers with his crown and claims me.

It’s a revelation.

He is so thick that he stretches me, every inch of him opens me underneath him, and his hands on my hips are non-negotiable. I cannot rock, I can only arch my back and accept him, and oh, it hurts, but it’s the best kind of pain as my body adjusts.

“I love it when you beg,” he says, and that’s how I discover that I am begging: Please, please, Graham please, I can’t do this, I can’t do this so slowly; I want more; oh, stop, it’s too big; oh, please, more—

I am split open, I am broken. It’s not the first time, but it feels like the first time; that stretching, tingling pain. It is a bright, raw hurt, and I am addicted to it all at once.

Graham’s heavy sack rocks against my pussy—he’s in. He’s all the way in. His hands are everywhere, dipping down to my clit, rubbing across my back, and his voice tells me everything I need to know. Such a good girl and so tight and stretched for me and mine.

In the stillness, I open around him, bit by bit, until there is no pain, only a pleasurable fullness, a fullness beyond my limits and yet firmly inside them. Firmly inside me.

Graham pulls out, slowly, until only his crown remains. “There’s no going back now.”

“I never want to go back.”

That’s the last thing I say for a long, long time.