Kat Singleton

I’d call anywhere home if it meant I was with her, because my home is no longer a physical place. My home is her.

“You’re my fiancée,” he growls. “The only bed you’ll be sleeping in is the one in my room.”

So the next time you find that you’re comparing yourself to other women, don’t. There’s never been anyone else. Just you.

“You’re my fiancée,” he growls. “The only bed you’ll be sleeping in is the one in my room.”

Margo Moretti.

The woman who has been the object of my desire for years.

Men. They really can do a number on you and not even give a shit that they did so.

kissed her because the thought of not kissing her made me feel empty inside.

I’m taken aback by what I see.

This room isn’t an office. At least not in the stereotypical way. It’s a studio.

An art studio.

“I love you, Beck. Nothing is going to stop me from it. I can’t believe you’ve gone all this time hiding how you felt. I’m sorry I didn’t see it before. That you weren’t the one I spoke to at that bar, but I want to spend forever making it up to you. It should’ve only ever been you, Beckham Sinclair.”

“I love you, Margo Moretti. I love you so fucking much that you drive me absolutely wild.”