Prologue

I t had been ten long years since Jasmine Cannon last had an orgasm, and it didn't look like that was changing anytime soon. Not that it was Liam's fault—the man was trying his best. And his best felt fucking good.

Her head fell back against the pillows, a gasp falling from her lips as Liam's fingers skated over her skin, his mustache tickling her neck where his lips had set up shop. That damn mustache . It had lived up to her intrigue, even if she hadn't been able to come with his tongue on her pussy. Again, not his fault. It was a Jazz problem.

She could sense the orgasm locked away somewhere deep inside her, but she just couldn't quite reach it. So much time had passed that she'd forgotten how it felt to truly let go. She'd tried—God, she'd tried—but Jazz couldn't take that last step off the ledge. That hadn't stopped her from having sex; she just tried to focus more on the journey than the destination. Some journeys felt better than others, and Liam... Well, she wasn't surprised he knew what he was doing .

Like father, like son, and all that. She'd heard all about how good Liam's dad, Cal, was in bed, because, as of that afternoon, Cal was married to her best friend. Jazz knew enough from Maggie to know that Daddy Michaelson specialized in multiple orgasms, and she'd hoped it ran in the family. It probably did, given how good Liam was at this, but alas, she wasn't the right person to test the theory.

Maggie probably wouldn't approve of Jazz falling into bed with her new stepson, but she was used to Jazz's poor decision making. And it was hard to worry about it with so much liquor running through her veins, making everything feel a little hazy, like she was three layers deep inside a dream.

Liam nipped at her jaw with his teeth. "Fuck, you feel incredible, Jasmine."

Jasmine . It was almost enough to tip her over the edge. Jazz squeezed her eyes closed and tried to focus every scrap of her attention on Liam. She breathed in the sweet, spicy scent of him, felt the tingle of his finger as he brushed the tip over her clit, drawing perfect circles. She forced her breathing to match the pace of his cock sliding in and out of her, the perfect mix of soft and rough, slow and desperate. Even as wasted as they both were, he had this down. His cock was big enough that she felt beautifully full, but not so big that she was uncomfortable.

Everything was perfect. The finish line was right. Fucking. There. She just had to reach it. Liam slid his hands under her ass, angling her hips. His next thrust hit her G-spot, and sparkles edged into Jazz's vision. So close .

"Oh my fucking God," she fisted the blankets, writhing below him. Holy shit, it was going to happen . Liam pressed his lips to hers with a rough moan, slipping his tongue between them. He tasted warm, like whiskey and orange, and she drank him in greedily.

"Jasmine," he groaned against her lips, her name even sweeter than the taste of the Old Fashioned he'd had to drink before they came upstairs.

She was a hairsbreadth from the edge, reaching into a long forgotten part of her, and then… nothing. Like a wave crashing over a fire, every flame, every ember was doused in something icy cold. Her body slammed the door closed on the finish line with a firm no , and Jazz turned her head into the pillow to hide the tears of frustration prickling her eyes.

She took a deep breath that caught in her throat, grabbed Liam's back with a white-knuckled grip, and forced herself to do the one thing in the world that she was best at: faking it.