Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Excerpt from The Mating Game
About the Author
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To Kristen, for always being the daddy I deserve.
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Prologue
Dani “This is the last time.”
I can feel his chuckle against my throat, the scrape of his teeth following after just before he soothes the mark with his tongue. “You said that last time.”
The warm press of his chest covers the length of my spine as he curls over me, and I grit my teeth when I feel his hands sliding around my hips, his fingers digging into my skin as I arch beneath him.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of a response—it only makes him more intolerable—instead giving him a silent urge to keep going as I push back against the hot length of his cock, which slots between my legs. I should make it less easy, I know that; there is nothing I hate more than knowing it’s so easy for him to make me fall apart—but that’s a conundrum I haven’t been able to figure out in the months we’ve been doing this. Hell, Ezra Hart might as well be a fucking glitch in the Matrix for how much I don’t understand about his infuriating appeal. My lips part when I feel him nudge against me, the thick head easing against my core in a slow, frustrating tease.
And Ezra, being the absolute dick that he is, immediately catches on to my impatience.
“You in a hurry, Dani?”
“You’re a fucking asshole.”
Another soft laugh caught in the bend of my neck as his nose traces back and forth there. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Stop fucking teasing me,” I huff.
He feathers a barely there kiss against my shoulder, and I can practically feel him grinning, the bastard. “Just savoring. Might be the last time, right?”
“Will be the last time,” I grind out.
“Mm. Sure.”
I open my mouth to tell him where he can shove his perfect dick—other than in me, of course—but then I feel the slow, maddening stretch of him as he eases inside. My angry words come out as more of a whimper, and I hate that too. Hate that I’m here, giving in to this for the umpteenth time, that I’m giving him one more encounter to gloat about when I see him in the light of day.
“I think we both know it won’t be the last time,” he breathes, tightening his grip on my hips.
I hate that he’s probably right.
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One
Dani “Objection. Leading the witness.”
I bite my tongue, quietly seething as I resist the urge to look back at the owner of the deep, honeyed voice calling out in a bored tone.
“Let me rephrase,” I say as evenly as I can manage, keeping my attention on the man in front of me. “You said in your statement that you would often see a visitor coming to the house while Mrs. Johanson was home alone. Is that correct, Mr. Crane?”
The man nods, peeking warily at the woman in question. “That’s correct.”
“And during those visits, where was Mr. Johanson?”
“He was usually at work, ma’am.”
“And this visitor, was it a man or a woman?”
“It was a man.”
I bite back a grin. “I see. How long would this man stay?”
Mr. Crane reaches to scratch at his thinning hair, shifting in his seat. It had taken me a hell of a lot to get him on the stand; in the end it was only because of Mr. Johanson’s promise that he would keep his gardening job regardless of the outcome of this trial that he finally agreed.
“It varied,” Mr. Crane said. “Sometimes an hour. Sometimes more.”
“So it’s safe to assume that Mrs. Johanson knew this man…well, correct?”
“Objection.” I hear a sigh behind me. “Speculation.”
“Rephrase,” I say tightly, still refusing to look at him. It’s clear he’s only objecting to trip me up at this point, since the basis is ridiculous. “Did you ever see Mrs. Johanson and the man interacting when he would visit, Mr. Crane?”
Mr. Crane shakes his head. “No, ma’am. He always went straight inside the house.”
“But it was always the same man?”
“Yes, ma’am. As far as I could tell.”
I know any other attempts to steer this conversation to the obvious truth of Mrs. Johanson’s infidelity will only result in more bullshit objections from my opposing counsel.
“Thank you, Mr. Crane.” I give my attention to Judge Hoffstein. “No further questions, Your Honor.”
I try not to look at him when I return to my table, I really do—but that pull is there, the one I so desperately wish didn’t plague me anytime we’re in the same room together. I can feel his eyes linger on me when I’m finally able to avert my gaze, feel them like the weight of his fingers along my skin as I retake my seat.
He stands slowly, one hand reaching to fasten the button of his suit—a deft, practiced motion that makes the tendons in his too-large hands flex—and I can’t help the way my eyes are drawn there, remembering the warmth of them on my body hardly even a week ago. I catch a hint of a smirk when I turn my face to meet his eyes, feeling warmth creep up my neck as I clench my teeth.
Fucking Ezra Hart.
I train my eyes forward, keeping them on the nervous older man on the stand, in quiet support.
“Mr. Crane,” Ezra starts. “Did you know Mrs. Johanson’s visitor?”
“No, sir,” Mr. Crane answers. “I was told that—”
“That’s hearsay,” Ezra cuts him off. “What you heard is irrelevant.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, strolling casually to the side and flicking his gaze to mine for the briefest of moments. “I’m asking if you ever actually met Mrs. Johanson’s visitor.”
