Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
There’s no way he could not have heard the soft but sharp intake of my breath. He had to have felt it in the air we exchanged. We stay like that for a second, frozen on the precipice of dangerous, foreign terrain, and then he molds his lips around mine like did outside the bar, claiming my mouth with faultless tenderness and undisguised heat that ignites an inferno inside me.
He’s a good kisser. I’ll give him that. But it’s not just the skill with which he explores my mouth that elicits this powerful reaction. It’s the honesty. Because he likes this too. It’s evident in the bulge that grows against my hip.
I don’t know what comes over me, why I open my lips for him when he teases the seam with his tongue. I only know that I’m not thinking straight any longer, not when he spreads my legs and yanks me to the edge of the seat while threading his fingers through my hair and tilting my head back for better access. Not when he cups my skull like a fragile glass bubble between his palms and plunders my mouth with hungry strokes of his tongue. Especially not when he rubs his hardness against the soft spot between my legs.
It’s the single most exhilarating kiss of my life.
Unable to bite back the sound, I moan when he deepens the caress. I’m past thinking. Past forming coherent thoughts. All I can focus on is the fire that leaps inside me. I’ve never felt so out of control. All I can do when he sucks my bottom lip into his mouth before biting down gently is to wrap my arms around his neck and to hold on.
He cups the back of my head in one big hand while putting the other on my hip. I like the soft weight of his fingers there. I like the warmth that seeps into my skin. I like it even better when he brushes his fingertips down my thigh to the hem of my dress. My breath catches on a hitch when his palm makes contact with the naked skin of my knee. Flames lick over my body as he smooths a calloused palm up the inside of my leg. I arch my back, quietly begging him to touch the place that throbs with need. When he finally brushes his knuckles over my clit in a touch so featherlight it’s barely there, I jerk in response.
He likes that too, groaning into the kiss as he doubles his onslaught on my lips while dipping his hand into the elastic of my panties. The pressure of his fingertip on the pulsing nub at the apex of my sex is as much as I can bear.
“Fuck,” he says with a sound close to a growl. “You’re soaking wet.”
It’s true. I’ve never been more turned on in my life.
I cry out when he circles my clit, tightening my arms around his neck. I’m so sensitive the softest pressure threatens to send me over the edge.
He tears his mouth from mine and pulls away to look at me. My lips tingle from the roughness of his stubble. They feel swollen and bee-stung in the most delicious way.
Studying my face, he dips his finger lower and curls the digit. I moan as need pulses in my core. I want him to fill me. I need the stretch.
I lean into the touch, seeking more friction. “Sav.”
“Damn right,” he says in a guttural voice. “I’m the one who makes you come. I alone and no one else.”
When he parts my folds and slides the length of his finger inside me, the pleasure is so intense that my backside lifts off the seat. He keeps his finger still, not pumping like I expected but stretching me while massaging my clit with the pad of a finger. It only takes a second before I break apart, coming so hard that every muscle in my body locks into place.
“Fuck, Anya.” He rests our foreheads together, breathing as hard as I am. “You’ll fucking kill me.”
I think he just did. I think I died. For the first time, I understand why they call it la petite mort. I must be dead if I’m no longer thinking and acting rationally. I’ve never been impulsive.
He doesn’t let go immediately. He keeps his finger inside me, and I find that I like it. I like this strange kind of aftercare.
He lets me catch my breath before he pulls his hand from my underwear. Holding my gaze, he brings his finger to his mouth and sucks it clean.
“Delicious,” he declares with smoldering eyes as he lowers my dress, making sure I’m covered in an odd, gentlemanly act. “I think that will do perfectly.”
Still coming down from the high of the orgasm, I stare at his handsome features. “For what?”