The heavy wooden door swung inward before Riley could even raise her hand to knock, and the low, velvet-rough voice that drifted out from the sunlit foyer hit her like a slow, deliberate stroke between her thighs.
“Bet you a hundred I’ll have her bent over the kitchen island, screaming my name, before she finishes unpacking her little suitcase.”
A chorus of deep, confident male laughter followed—rich, arrogant, and dripping with pure masculine certainty. Riley froze on the threshold, fingers tightening around the worn handle of her battered rolling suitcase. The cheap wheels had squeaked the entire two-mile walk from the bus stop because she couldn’t spare twenty bucks for an Uber. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She should turn around right now. Walk away. Pretend she’d never heard
