It was past midnight, again. Like yesterday, I couldn't sleep. The rest of the house was quiet. I had gone looking for a book in the library—anything to distract me from the constant, low ache between my legs—and instead found him.
Maddox sat in one of the leather armchairs near the window, a glass of whiskey in his hand, reading something on his phone. He looked up the moment I stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind me.
For a long second neither of us spoke.
Then he set the phone down.
“Lock it.”
My pulse stuttered. “No.”
He stood. Slow. Controlled. The same way he had moved that first night in the hotel when he decided he was going to have me.
“Lock the door, Dove.”
I should have walked out. Instead my hand moved on its own and turned the lock. The soft click sounded too lo
