Prologue

Don’t need love

I still wasn’t entirely convinced it wasn’t a dream.

Every single time he broke into my house, I had to convince myself it wasn’t a dream.

I never knew when he’d show, couldn’t plan for the times he’d yank the sheet off me before the mattress shifted under his weight. His hands were big and rough on my bare back, and when he flipped me over and skimmed between my legs, that heated rough on my cock was heaven.

So was the big, hot body on mine.

I didn’t know if I should be stopping it. But why would I? Hot sex, no commitment. Hell, no talking. Most of the time just a soundtrack of classic rock, punctuated mostly by the Grateful Dead, which made the whole thing so goddamned hot. It was the perfect non-relationship for a guy like me, since my lifestyle was completely non-conducive to relationships.

But this guy wasn’t just any guy. No one in my twenty-four years had ever had the balls to pull this kind of break and enter shit with me. I was impressed. Fascinated.

Guy was a shadow. I was used to moving through places unnoticed, but he had it down to an art form. But he definitely wanted to be noticed when he came into my bed. And he was strong. Stronger than I was, which was no easy feat.

He was tattooed. Always bore a couple of bite marks after we finished. I couldn’t help myself—I liked the idea of leaving my mark, but then I was always hoarse the mornings after he visited.

He liked to study me in that brief space of time post sex, before I crashed. I could see the appreciation in his dark eyes, and it made me squirm. He’d notice that I was somewhere between embarrassed and enjoyment and he’d chuckle, low and husky, and that made my cock hard. Again.

I wanted to ask him why the hell he kept breaking in, but I didn’t. It was obvious to me—he wanted to fuck. And I was acquiescing when I normally wouldn’t have. I liked control, all types, all the time. But during these visits, it didn’t matter.

He made me dizzy. Pliant. Incoherent.

I could tell he liked me that way. Expected it.

He’d take his sweet time—always did—but I always got what I needed when I needed it. He didn’t hold anything back, would stop me from thinking, worrying. Taking all the shit from my shoulders for those hours.

The whole thing was a free fall every single time. I pleaded for it, gave it up with no shame because sex shouldn’t have shame. And I wasn’t ashamed of this at all…but I didn’t know if I was supposed to be his secret…or if he was mine.

Why the hell did I think about it this hard, this much?

I was getting seriously laid on a regular basis. More orgasms than anyone had a right to. Fucked blind and dumb.

Fucked to sleep.

And then he’d leave. I never knew how long he stayed, pretended I didn’t give a shit. But I’d wake up in the morning and tell myself he’d stayed for a while after I went to sleep, even though I had no idea if he had or not. Because I pretty much passed out by the end of it, the good kind of exhausted where I was so comfortable I probably had a stupid smile on my face when I did so.

Did he tire me out purposely?

Furthermore, how did he get into my place? It was locked down tight. In my more lucid moments, I thought about adding another dead bolt, more locks and a different security system, all at once, just to see if he could still get through.

But what if he couldn’t?

It was what stopped me every single time.