Rowan stood alone in the dimly lit training room attached to his suite, the heavy bag swaying gently from the last punch he’d thrown. Sweat glistened on his bare torso, muscles flexing and relaxing with each controlled breath. He wore only black athletic shorts, hair damp and falling into his eyes. The room smelled of leather, rubber, and exertion.
He circled the bag slowly, fists raised, then drove a sharp right hook into it—thud. The impact echoed. His mind wasn’t on technique tonight.
It was on Isla.
The way she’d moaned his name that night—soft at first, then desperate, broken, like she couldn’t hold it back anymore. The way her back had arched off the mattress when he’d sucked a mark into her throat. The way her thighs had trembled around his head when he’d tasted her. The little g
