Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
He kisses me so hard, so deep, like he’s demanding my surrender.
Tongue slipping against my lips, darting and teasing, thrusting without giving me that full plunging feeling that would turn me inside out if he’d just do it.
His hands are hard on my body, pressing me against his chest.
I feel like he’ll turn me to dust with the pressure.
His breaths are so hot, his beard dragging against my mouth. I’m close to breaking down and begging him to take me deeper. But I can’t find the words, only more pleading with soft flicks of my tongue, then a single daring nip against his lower lip.
It’s like flipping a switch.
His hold on me tenses, with a harsh growl exploding up his throat.
His lips turn feral, dragging against my mouth in unrelenting strokes.
His tongue plunges deeper, slipping into me hotly and tracing my mouth.
Intimate, melting, relentless.
I’m going down like a shooting star, barely able to breathe, digging my fingers into his hair and parting my lips to beg for more, more, don’t stop, please.
It’s like being kissed by summer lightning.
No warning before it’s all flash and strike and burn.
I want him to burn me down.
And when I slide my tongue along his, arching and begging, pressing into the hardness of his body, he stops.
It’s like someone’s slapped him back to his senses and thrown him away.
There it is again—that almost angry look as he stares down, like I’ve done something to him. He’s certainly done something to me when I can’t stop panting.
My mouth aches with raw, fiery need.
He’s breathing just as hard, his chest heaving against me.
His mouth is red, not just with my lipstick, but with the rough pressure of our lips.
Though he’s giving me that look that makes my heart turn inside out with confusion and hurt and wanting . . .
His hands still clutch so damn hard, digging into my flesh with delicious pressure and making me wish I was naked against him so I could feel his roughness everywhere.
I’m flipping dying.
The way he molds me against his chest forces my thighs together, and all I want to do is wrap them around him.
“I should hope,” he rasps, breaking the charged silence, “that will be sufficient for any Peeping Toms.”
I’m so dead.
The thorns in his voice alone rip me apart.
I almost can’t speak when his voice does things it’s never done to me before, and I feel like those thorns are wrapping around me now, digging in, injecting this poison of lust into my veins.
“Y-yeah,” I manage, pulling my hands back to wipe at my mouth, trying to pull myself together. To keep this professional, when it’s anything but. “I think it’ll . . . it’ll be enough. You can put me down now.”
A spastic jerk only pulls me closer. I almost moan when it’s just making the torture worse.
Then August bends without a word to set me on my feet, and if not for the fact that I’m clutching at his shoulders, I’d tumble right to the deck with how wobbly my legs are. There’s another quick look between us as the heat of his hand falls to the small of my back, spanning from hip to hip and making another hot surge rush through me to weaken my knees.
I’m combusting.
Just swimming in this liquid heat, this dark and molten tropical sea of desire.
Even though he gives me another almost harsh look, the burn in it tears at me even more.
With slow breaths, I try to steady myself, while August turns away, fishes out his keys, and pushes the glass front door open, making the blinds over the inset rattle in a whisper like rain.
When he reaches back for my hand to draw me inside the dimly lit house after him, I know it’s just for anyone who’s watching. Making it look like after that steamy kiss, he’s leading me inside to his bedroom to finish what we started.
If only.
His hand is so coarse against mine, and that sensation consumes me as I step over the threshold behind him.
It’s hard for me to drag my focus off him enough to take in the house around me. I get faint impressions of dark-polished bamboo walls, green-black slate flooring, tasteful minimalist decorations with subtle lighting thoughtfully placed to highlight an earthenware piece of pottery here, a painting there, a plant over there.
The furniture is sparse and masculine in dark fabric, well matched but also clearly full and chosen for comfort.
Hints of moonlight stream in everywhere. The whole house was designed so at least one wall is all windows facing the water, complete with those bamboo blinds for privacy.
All around us is a faint echo of the waves, captured by the open spaces and wooden walls. They make the entire house feel like it’s slowly moving with the tide.
August lets go of my hand the moment we’re inside—but he turns to close the door behind me, reaching over my head to press his palm against the wooden frame before pushing it shut.