Jill Ramsower

Conner was speaking to my father, but I could only hear the hypnotic undertones of his deep voice because my ears were ringing so loudly. Then a firm hand slowly clamped down over my bouncing knee, forcing my body to stillness.

When she walked into the dining room in that dress hugging her sleek curves, something deep inside me stirred awake. Something primal and raw.

“My name. Say it,” he ordered softly.

I didn’t understand what this was about, but for the briefest second, I would have given him anything if it meant keeping him close.

“Conner,” I breathed.

“Fuck.” The violent curse tore from deep inside him before he claimed my lips with unrestrained savagery.

And her voice. Jesus Christ, her voice.

“What kind of man would I be if I didn’t protect what’s mine?”

“Liar, liar,” he whispered, his warm breath on my skin heating my entire body. “Shall I prove it?” Then his lips were on mine, sucking, tasting, devouring.

“You bit me?” I shot at him, stunned.

His eyes glinted with dangerous amusement. “So nobody gets confused about who you belong to.”

“I’m not yours yet.”

I was manacled by my silence.

“What kind of man would I be if I didn’t protect what’s mine?”

“I’m not yours yet.” I couldn’t quite hold his gaze while saying the words.