He drew me in with his sexy face and wicked smirks. And he warned me, way back on that picnic table, he told me what would happen; he’d eat me alive. And that’s ultimately exactly what happened. There’s something in him that burns wicked-hot—and not in the ‘he’s hot as hell’ way. And you can’t reach into the fire and expect to not get at least a little bit scorched. I reached into the flames. I got burned. If only I could forget the taste of him, forget the feel of his skin against mine. If only I could forget how he’d twisted and turned and wound his way through my brain, my body, and my
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