The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,210

OF YOUR TIME RIGHT NOW.

* * *

Her: MUST BE DEAN AND DELUCA OR THE DEAL IS OFF.

* * *

Me: DEAL. SEE YOU IN ONE HOUR.

Her: YOU’RE LUCKY I’M A SUCKER FOR COFFEE. AND ORGASMS.

* * *

Shaking my head, I chuckle. I normally prefer to have the last word, but I’ll make an exception for her just this once.

I slip my phone into my pocket and round the corner to my place, stopping at Dean and DeLuca to grab a gift card because I don’t know what she drinks or how she drinks it, and then I head home and wait.

Taking a seat in my favorite armchair, I flip on the TV and check the clock. She should be here any minute.

I scroll aimlessly through my phone, flipping through old texts and photos and emails, scanning them but not really. My mind is elsewhere, halfway between nowhere and the edge of oblivion.

But before I realize what I’m doing, I find myself face to face with a chain of old emails from Damiana.

My heart stops in my chest.

The day she died—the day I found out the truth, I took everything she owned, shoved it in a cardboard box, and threw it down the trash chute. I destroyed the photos. I deleted her photos from my phone. Before I’d so much as felt the crushing tightness of loss in my chest, I’d erased all evidence of what we had from my life.

Except these emails, evidently.

The last one is dated almost four weeks ago—the night before her death.

* * *

FROM: Damiana Westwood

SUBJECT: Re: re: re: Date night?

* * *

The Gucci people want me to stay in Florence another week. I’m going to have to cancel our date this weekend. I’m so sorry, baby. I’d much rather be with you, but they had another model cancel and they really, really want me, and I don’t want to let them down because a contract with them would be a game changer for my career. Anyway, I’ll be home Monday, and you can have me all to yourself, I promise.

* * *

I love you.

* * *

Yours, and only yours—

Damiana

* * *

PS—We need to finalize our wedding cake design when I get back. Can you believe it? Six months until I’m Mrs. Rhett Carson!! Can’t wait!

I’ve since found out she never set foot in Florence, and her former agent accidentally let it slip that she had never been considered for a Gucci contract nor had she ever worked with them.

She was holed up with Bryce that week, at some hole-in-the-wall resort in the Finger Lakes.

A knock at my door pulls me out of this deep, dark place, and reminds me that the only thing that matters right now—mind-blowing, guilt-free, no-strings sex—is waiting for me on the other side.

“About damn time,” I say when I open the door.

“Make this quick.” She wraps her arms around my neck, rising on her toes after kicking the door shut and pressing her mouth against mine.

Twelve

Ayla

* * *

The final draft of my manuscript is due to my agent at eight AM tomorrow, but here I am, standing in the foyer of Rhett Carson’s apartment, letting him tear my clothes from my body and hoist me into his arms.

Our lips crash and our tongues meet and my legs hook around his rock hard body and nothing else matters.

He deposits me in the center of his bed and undoes his jeans with a single hand, letting them fall to the ground. There’s a hint of a smile on his mouth when he pulls his t-shirt over his head, and when our eyes meet there’s a glint in his gaze that makes my stomach swirl a bit.

Butterflies.

Butterflies have no business being a part of this equation.

When he looks at me like that, it’s hard to remember that this is purely a physical arrangement, that it can never be anything else for a myriad of reasons.

I close my eyes, breathing in the masculine scent of his bedsheets, when I feel the bed shift from his weight. The warmth of his body hovering over mine and the graze of his palm along my inner thigh follows next. My legs spread for him, and my hands reach for his cock, pumping its throbbing length.

Two calloused fingers slip between my folds, plunging deep inside me, and he isn’t satisfied until I release an audible gasp. A moment later, he brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting me.

“God, you’re so fucking sweet,” he growls. “And wet.”

Hooking my hands along his torso,