I exhale as my eyes drift over the players and jersey chasers before coming back and landing on Ryker freaking Voss himself, the center of attention and Mr. I’m on my break, but I stand to see who needs help, groaning when I see the football table waving at me. I slam my journal shut with an emphatic bang and tuck it under my laptop on the bar to make it less conspicuous. I jump at being pulled from my concentration and nearly fall off my stool before righting myself, my face a deep cardinal red. “Yo! Garçon, we need some help back here,” comes a deep male voice from somewhere inside the restaurant. His huge length teases my entrance, and I moan, my hands clutching his shoulders.

He pushes me down on the bed and gathers my skirt up, his fingers finding the opening in my undergarments. “Good.” Caressing my bodice with his palm, he tugs on the fabric until it rips and my voluptuous breasts pop out. “Are you imagining me fucking you, Lady Penelope?” “I’m a virgin,” I say, darting around the canopied bed even as I imagine him spreading me out naked on those velvet covers, his tongue sucking my peaks one by one. His male length juts out of his trousers, and it’s hard and long…and magnificent. My wide eyes linger on the rippling muscles of his abdomen, wandering to the deep V on his hips that leads to. His white linen shirt is next, the buttons flying around the room. “I know you don’t mean it.” He gives me a cocky smile, whips off his dark coat, and tosses it on the floor. “No,” I gasp, but I suspect he knows I don’t mean it. He thinks he’s the best thing since crumpets and scones. Standing in front of me with his cravat slightly askew is none other than the devil himself, Lord Ryker Voss, the Duke of Waylon. The door to my bedroom flies open and I grab my chest, my fingers clutching the bodice of my sapphire-blue dress.

I bet you ilsa madden mills