Julian Fairchild looked deeply at the woman in front of him, slowly closing the not-so-functional door of the suite.
His sharp Adam's apple rolled up and down. He walked up to Maeve Lane, his gaze tightly locked onto her, as if wanting to etch her every expression into his heart.
Maeve felt a strong force come upon her, as if she was thrown onto a mass of cotton, and then a hot, iron-like body tightly pressed against hers.
Someone lifted her chin.
The room was filled with intimacy.
...
The next morning.
Maeve felt as if her whole body had been run over by a car, weak and powerless.
She frowned and slowly lifted her eyelids.
The first thing she saw was the handsome and stern face of Julian Fairchild. She was held tightly in his arms, almost unable to move, surrounded by the fierce and masculine aura of the man.
