Craving Midnight by A.M. HargroveRelease Date: November 2nd, 2017
Craving Midnight, an all-new romantic standalone from A.M. Hargrove is available NOW!
A veil drops over her eyes and the laugh disappears. Whatever happened in therapy opened up too many old wounds she won’t show me. Right now, anyway. Then I think about what just took place between us, and I question my own sanity. What the fuck was I thinking? Sex and business should never mix. I broke one of my cardinal rules. I didn’t just break it, I pulverized the damn thing, and it’s now scattered into dust. Maybe I should pretend it didn’t happen. But I can’t do that. And why? Because it was the most epic sex of my life. And it was with Midnight, someone I’ve developed feelings for. How the hell did that happen? Leaning down, I take my tongue and give her pussy one last, long swipe. Then I stand and go into the bathroom to dispose of the condom. When I’m done, I pick up my discarded clothes and get dressed. Her eyes practically burn through the skin on my back, which isn’t exactly the most comfortable feeling. Before I leave, I walk next to the bed. “I’ll be back tomorrow around the same time. And don’t tell me you didn’t like what happened between us. If you do, I’ll call you a fucking liar,” I say. I want to kiss her, but I don’t. Instead, I tug at one of her nipples and the response is immediate. She sucks in her breath and my dick twitches in my pants. I have to get out of here before I strip off my jeans and push said dick back inside her swollen pussy. I’m pretty fucking sure she’d be willing too. On my way out, she says, “Tomorrow, I want Italian. Make it spaghetti Bolognese. And find a place that serves the best. If you’re going to fuck me like this, I need to keep up my strength.” The corners of my mouth curve up. “Yes, ma’am. Anything else?” “Yes. A bottle of Barolo, a Caesar salad, and some great bread. You pick the bread. And butter, none of that olive oil. Bread needs butter.” “Demanding, aren’t you?” “Not at all. You have the opportunity to choose your own entrée because I never share.” I chuckle. “Dessert?” “Surprise me.” I’d like to surprise her, but I don’t think I have a single trick up my sleeve that she hasn’t seen or experienced. That should bother me, but it doesn’t. At least not yet.