And I stopped her? What the fuck is wrong with me? One minute I’m telling myself I’m not letting her go without a fight, and then the next, I wake up alone, her perfume on my sheets, the scent of our sex still on my skin.

Fucking Dante. It has to be because of him. What does he have that I don’t? I’ve never even heard her mention the name of an ex, let alone one who has this strong of a hold on her.

Goddamn estrogen vortex.

It’s fucking with my head because I’m sitting here, thinking about it, when I should be shooting the shit with Colton. Instead, I’m questioning everything: my own thoughts, my own feelings, even Dante.

I keep thinking back to that night, trying to pinpoint how the hell we went from fighting to her crying to her wanting more to her being gone. And it’s her falling apart that I keep going back to. It has to be everything with her sister’s death coming to a head and just exploding all at once since it seems she’s held it in all this time.

Sure we’ve known each other—hung out casually—for the past year and a half, but for a year of that time she was dealing with Lexi’s illness and then the aftermath of her death. I’ve seen her fire ebb. Her defiance slip. And hell yes, she grabs onto it every now and again, but the balls-to-the-wall, take-no-prisoners Haddie Montgomery I met that first night in Vegas seems lost. Feistiness snuffed out. Carefree demeanor now a jumbled goddamn mess of extreme highs and lows.

But hell, even grieving and a shadow of her usual self, she’s that fucking sip of Macallan sitting on a bar lined with every other alcohol known to man. Cream of the crop, top-notch class.

Motherfucking perfection.

And I can’t even think about her taste. Damn woman is addictive. Heat and sweetness, with a fucking mixture of unpredictable thrown in that has just enough edge to make you question what’s going to happen next and where the hell she’s going to take you after that.

And it doesn’t matter really because you know you’re already going along for the ride, regardless of the destination. Heaven or Hell, she makes both sound desirable.

With my prolonged silence, I expect a smart-ass remark about how I must be whipped already or how the ride feels without a saddle, but Colton doesn’t say anything like I’d expect. His trademark use of humor to escape any conversation that’s serious in nature doesn’t come. And I appreciate it, take a moment to be thankful for a friend who’s known me so long he knows I need a minute to wrap my head around everything.

So I start thinking of solutions. How to fix this problem: my wanting her and her pushing me away despite the desire clear as day in her eyes. The alcohol in my blood tempts me to resolve it by walking over to Haddie right now and tossing her over my shoulder. Lock her in a goddamn room with me until she talks, tells me how either Dante or Lexi is preventing something more from happening between us.

I need to get some fucking peace of mind and clarity for the first time since she pressed her lips against mine weeks ago.

“She’s had a rough go of it the past year.” Colton’s voice breaks our silence and probably in the nick of time because I’m about two minutes away from making a scene. My own goddamn emotions are a clusterfuck of chaos—I’m pissed at her for pushing me away, but I also want to wrap my arms around her to take that look of confusion out of her eyes and ease the anger that’s just beneath the surface that’s so tangible, it tinges the taste of her kiss.

“That she has,” I murmur softly, not wanting to elaborate since my thoughts are already owned by it all.

“Ry’s worried about her.”

And fuck, why did Colton have to say that? Because if her best friend is worried, then I’m sure as hell going to be concerned. I keep my hat over my eyes, my head leaned back, and my own voice impassive. “Understandably.”

Silence weighs heavy between us as he figures what to say next because I’m sure my lack of a response to his loaded question is unexpected. “You really fucking like her, don’t you?”

I lift the brim of my hat up and angle my head over to the side to look at him, sure the answer is written all over my face. “Just trying to figure out what to do about it since it seems she only wants to be brown-bagging it.”

He smirks at me. “Keep at it, dude. If Rylee could break me down and cause this,” he says, holding up his hand where his wedding band rests, “then shit, anything is possible.”

I let the slight smile tug up the corner of my mouth, knowing he’s just trying to be a good friend by getting me talking, showing me what could be … but I’m done talking.

Man up, Daniels. I need to start acting.

Nut the fuck up or shut the fuck up.

I’m feeling good, buzz still humming and mind made up as I walk toward the house. I wave my hand toward the pool and the guys I just up and left one volley short of match point, telling them to shut the hell up because I’ll be right back.

We’ve all had more than enough to drink by now, and it’s not like I wasn’t obvious when I saw Had stroll past the edge of the pool and walk inside. That damn bathing suit of hers taunted me like a green flag on race day but with a whole lot less fabric.

And a hell of a lot better prize.

I throw the towel I scrubbed through my hair onto the chair as I catch Colton’s eye across the deck. He has one hand on Baxter’s head and his other arm around Rylee’s shoulders, but the look he gives me—the go take what’s yours one—is followed by a lift of his chin. A silent show of moral support. I see Rylee catch his look and follow it over to me before a crooked smirk follows a shake of her head.

I walk into the house and see Haddie immediately, that perfect backside of hers on display in the skimpy black bikini as she bends over and looks in the refrigerator. I hear the rattle of jars as she moves items around, but I can’t focus on anything else besides the sight of her ass and knowing just what is nestled in between those thighs.

I want her on so many other levels—in fact, I feel like I’m going a little crazy, trying to prove that point—but damn it to hell if I don’t want her on this level too. Tanned, toned, and tempting.

And just this simple sight has me reaffirming my decision from earlier. At all costs. That’s my new motto. I am going to make it so that Haddie Montgomery can’t resist me. Use the sex she seems to use as a shield around her to my advantage. Reel her in and then force her to understand that whatever the hell she’s running from she doesn’t have to worry about with me.

The question is, how exactly am I going to do that?

I mean the sex part is a no-brainer, but I need to make sure she doesn’t rabbit the minute it’s over. And tying her to the bed most definitely sounds like one hell of a dick-hardening option, but in the end, it earns me no trust. So my object is to make her want, make her ask for it, confuse the hell out of her. Make her want like I want, but then refuse her just like she does me.

Because I know she desires more—I can see it in those eyes of hers. I just have to figure out what it is that’s going to break down those goddamn walls but still make her feel like she’s protected from whatever it is that’s hurt her.

So I stare at the curve of her hips and decide to make my move. I step forward and murmur, “Excuse me,” when I push the door open a little wider with one hand while my other hand rests conspicuously atop the swell of her ass. I feel her body jolt, hear the startled gasp fall from her mouth, and can’t deny that surge of electric current that charges through me when we touch. It’s like a fucking live-wire that causes a momentary short circuit in my thoughts as it weaves around my balls and tugs them with the goddamn strings that are already laced through my heart.

The woman makes me feel in ways I never expected. It should be me who wants to bolt, but for some reason it makes me want her even more. Everything about her draws me in, hooks me, mesmerizes me.

Goddamn it to hell. She’s my voodoo.

And it’s not like that fact scares me. Fuckin’ A, it should when I’m content meandering through the dating field for a while longer, but shit, there’s just something about Haddie that’s indescribable.

The sip of Macallan that ruins you for all others.

So I figuratively grab my balls with both hands and jump in feetfirst, hoping she’ll be the one to help me float because I sure as hell know she’s worthy enough to drown for.

She backs out of the refrigerator, and I make sure to crowd her space. Her body rubs against mine as she stands up. And the feeling of those hard nipples against my bare chest urges every single part of me to hold her against me and claim that mouth of hers. Kiss her senseless so her lips are swollen and pink when I’m done with them.

Startled, she looks up at me with my name falling off her lips in a rush of air from her mouth. We stand like this for a split second, bodies demanding and minds warring before she hurriedly pushes away from me. She seems flustered, and I can see her trying to remember what exactly she was doing before I interrupted her. I know when she remembers because she turns back to the refrigerator and grabs the platter of Jell-O shots I’d distracted her from.

She pulls the tray out, muttering, “Excuse me.” She keeps her eyes averted from mine, and it takes me a minute to steady myself, the mixture of beer and Haddie enough to make a man drunk off his ass.

I shut the door, watching her move the tray to the counter on the other side of the kitchen and start fiddling with the shots, her back toward me. I close the distance, but the words on my lips falter.

“Jell-O shots, huh?” I ask, trying to act as casual as possible, not caring whatsoever because the Macallan in front of me looks a thousand times more tempting than the childish flavors in her colored cups. “What kind?”

“Mm-hmm. Tequila sunrise, I think.”

I know she knows I’m behind her. Can see her hands stop fiddling aimlessly. Her body stills, and her breath hitches. I step into her—itching to touch her in so many ways, and when I see the little cups of orange Jell-O she’s focusing on, I know exactly how to go about it.

Plan of attack figured out.

My front is against her back, trapping her between me and the counter, my hands placed on either side of her hips. The heat of her body, the softness of her curves, and the scent of sun on her skin are enough to make a sane man crazy. I draw it all in—everything about her—as I feel her breath release in a shuddered exhale. It’s the same goddamn sound she makes when I enter her, and hell if that doesn’t make my balls tighten and my dick ache to hear it again.

Preferably on frequent repeat.

I lean my face forward so that my chin scrapes over her bare shoulder and across to the back of her neck. I press an openmouthed kiss there, just below her exposed hairline from her hair being pulled up. I hear the soft sigh begin before she catches it when she feels the warmth of my lips and lick of my tongue. A small thrill shoots through me, knowing I can affect her even after she ran.

Never underestimate the power of a kiss on the neck.

Our bodies are against each other’s, my lips pressed to her nape, and I just remain still so that the heat of my breath can hit her neck. So that she can think and wonder what my next move is going to be.

We stand here in that suspended state of anticipation before I move my mouth ever so slowly to her ear. And I’m not sure if it’s from my breath or just our general nearness, but my resolve to tease and taunt rather than taste and take is strengthened when I see the goose bumps dance across her skin in reaction to me.

“What is it they say you’re supposed to do with tequila?” I breathe into her ear as one of my hands reaches forward to take a little cup, my elbow purposely brushing against her bare torso, and my body pressing harder into hers.

She doesn’t answer, but her body vibrates from our connection. “Something like Lick it …” I let my voice trail off as I run my tongue from the edge of her shoulder up to the curve of her neck. I hear an incoherent moan from her that turns me on in all kinds of ways and feel her body sag some against mine as I taste the salt on her skin.

I hold the shot up in front of us, my languorous trail of kisses stopping right below her earlobe. “Slam it.” I raise the shot up, angling the heel of my hand softly against her breast before bringing it to my lips, her sudden intake of air pushing it farther into me. I toss the Jell-O back, its chill sliding down my throat. I set the empty cup back onto the counter, my dick hardening as it rubs against her lower back. Her inability to speak from her stubborn desire urges me on.