Each time he drew back, the loss of being buried in her wet heat made him crave plunging back into her depths. Each time he drove forward, he swore he could feel the end of her sheath with the head of his shaft. He knew there was no escape for her from his relentless thrusting. He needed her to accept he was the one doing the fucking, and she was the one being fucked.
Roark’s cock stroked her over and over as he grunted and groaned in feral and primal satisfaction. Her body convulsed, her pussy contracting all along his length in the same rhythm that stroked her heated channel. He could feel her capitulation to his pleasure as well as to his dominance.
“Come for me!” he bellowed like an enraged bull as he thrust in and out.
She screamed his name as she toppled over the edge of ecstasy. He thrust into her three more times before his cock erupted, emptying his essence into her. When he was finished, he withdrew, his cock dripping the last of his seed.
Jesus, Roark, you’re such a bastard, thought Sage.
Roark Samuels was the romantic hero of Sage’s wildly popular erotic suspense series. The first novel was meant to be a standalone. When it shot to the top of all the best seller lists, her publisher, Gail Vincent, demanded she make it into a series. Now, her readers wouldn’t allow her to bring it to an end.
She often remarked she spent more time with Roark than with anyone else. The crossover success of the novels wasn’t all sunshine and lollipops. The better they sold, the higher the demand, which had taken its toll on her personal life. Her fiancé had broken off their engagement, she had been asked to leave her day job as a paralegal for a conservative D.C. law firm, and she’d gained twenty pounds. Her author persona had become far removed from who she really was, but it not only paid the bills, it had also allowed her to become a full-time author and buy a rambling mansion on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. She was seen as a hard-driving, dominant woman who lived alone and liked it that way—yet nothing could have been further from the truth.
Sage laughed as she read the next to the last scene, taking a sip of Diet Coke and popping a piece of caramel corn in her mouth. Standing, she stretched, then trotted out of what had once been a solarium when her home had been built in the late 1800s. It was one of the first remodeling projects she’d taken on, much to her contractor’s dismay. Sage had converted it into her office and had all the glass replaced with glass that could withstand a hurricane. Not only did Sage love to write there when there were clear, sunny skies with billowy clouds overhead, but adored it even more when the weather was dark and stormy. But then, Sage was something of a storm child.
“Hey, Gail!” she said, entering the foyer just as Gail stomped in.
“Please tell me you took a shower and washed your hair…”
Sage shook her head and grinned. “Nice to see you, too.”
“For God’s sake, Sage, you have a signing at the Huntington. We need to get there and get you set up.”
“The signing isn’t until tomorrow. I’ll get up early in the morning…”
“Do you even read the attachments to the emails I send you?”
“I read the emails,” Sage said sheepishly.
Gail rolled her eyes again. “There is a reception this evening, then you’re hosting a Meet the Author breakfast, you have a panel with some of the other more notable authors, lunch, then the VIP signing, followed by the regular one. You need to get dressed in something presentable,” Gail said as she steered Sage up the grand staircase toward the master bedroom.
“How about if you take the books and swag now? I’ll get dressed and drive in by myself. You always like it when I make an entrance with the roadster.”
Gail nodded, and Sage sensed she might be able to avoid a seven-hour tirade about how awful North Carolina was and how ungrateful Sage was for all Gail did. The fact was, Sage was grateful, but always kept in mind Gail was well paid for her services. She had long ago come to the conclusion that Gail was over-stressed and a complete control freak. Since most of the time that worked in Sage’s favor, she usually just put up with it.
“I promise to be there by six-thirty, then I’ll change in the room. I’ll even let you pick out my clothing for the event.”
“Who the hell else would do it? You really need a personal assistant—someone to run your schedule, pack for you, make appointments, run errands, etc.”
“I like living alone,” Sage said quietly.
Gail stopped and put a hand on her arm. “I know Derek leaving you was a shock. I hope he realizes what an idiot he was. Leaving before he married you and you made it big was just stupid.”
“I’d like to think he would have married me because he loved me, not just for the possible divorce settlement, but I guess I have to appreciate that he recognized he couldn’t handle it and broke it off.”
“Appreciate?” Gail snorted. “The little weasel got embarrassed…”
“My books aren’t for everybody, Gail, and I respect that. In any event, I have all the books and swag ready to go.”
“Fine. It’s probably better if you just swoop in. That ought to intimidate the other authors…”
“I don’t want to intimidate people…”
“Why ever not? It allows you to command respect and kowtowing from the hotel, and it lends to your aura as the fabulous and slightly mysterious romance author.” Gail made short work of packing her clothing. “I’m going to leave your makeup here and arrange
