Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
“Oh shit,” I hiss, as he lifts my legs, using the fabric between them to press my legs higher.
The first sweep of his tongue feels like I’ve been struck by lightning. As much as I want the next swipe, I don’t get it.
“Later,” he snaps, his lips glistening from my arousal.
It was a test. If he found me not ready, I have no doubt he’d spend some time getting me that way, but I’ve been slick, desperately needy for him, since we left Lindell.
He doesn’t ask permission, doesn’t check with me one last time, before he presses inside of me.
My mouth hangs open on a breathless scream at the intrusion.
It’s brutal and a little painful.
It’s fucking perfect.
He draws his hips back, his eyes locked on mine, his jaw tight, the muscles flexing as he clenches harder.
There’s no apology in his eyes. There’s no guilt.
This doesn’t resemble what happened before at all.
“Nash,” I hiss when he slams forward again, his grip on my sweats the only thing locking me in place.
“Don’t you dare ask me to stop,” he growls, his hips picking up the tempo.
“Never,” I say. “Harder.”
A menacing grin spreads across his face as he pulls back and slams forward again.
“I’m going to—what the fuck?” I hiss, when he pulls free of me, making me realize I was rocking against him because it leaves my hips fucking nothing but air.
“We have forever, baby,” he says, his big hands pulling at the shoe on my right foot.
He rips it free, tugging at the sweats until they fall from that leg.
I squeal when he flips me over, wondering how many bruises will be left behind when he grips my body, forcing my hips into the air.
“Nash,” I hiss again when he tugs my hair, forcing me to sit up on my knees, the back of my head planting against his shoulder.
“Keep your mouth shut unless you’re going to beg me for more,” he growls in my ear, his magical fucking cock finding that spot inside of me that aches for him and only him.
I whimper and his chest rumbles with something akin to pride at my desperation.
“Can’t stop it,” I warn, unsure of how my orgasm will make him respond.
“Don’t want you to. Fucking give it to me, Ayla. Let me know you’re mine.”
I don’t hesitate. I don’t try to stop it. I don’t feel an ounce of guilt or shame for the way my body explodes.
With the orgasm, I release all the negative shit Pirro and Cortez made me feel. With each pulse of my core, the humiliation, the degradation, the utter helplessness falls away.
“Goddamn, baby. That’s it. Look at me, Ayla.”
I lock eyes with him over my shoulder, my eyes shining with tears of relief.
“Not pulling out,” he warns.
“Please don’t,” I tell him.
“Fuck,” he hisses one more time before I feel the pulse of his cock.
His breaths are ragged, puffing from his lips as his hips continue to work.
It’s utter fucking perfection, and I don’t care how broken we are. We can be broken together, and that’s the beauty of us. We won’t ever need to look Instagram flawless. I won’t ever have to worry about the opinions of others. I can be raw and open, and he’s going to appreciate me more for it.
“Baby,” he whispers as he pulls free, turning me over to face him in the next breath.
His lips on mine feel like a promise. It’s a vow we’re both too vulnerable right now to speak out loud.
The kiss is slow, the nip of his teeth on my lower lip when he pulls away a quick reminder that he’s not going soft on me, physically or emotionally.
His wet cock runs along my slit as he lifts me, my legs immediately wrapping around his waist.
“You better not,” I warn when he walks with me in his arms to the bathroom. “I don’t have much to wear.”
He places me on the counter before pulling my shoe and sweats from my leg.
“Come on,” he says, holding out his hand to me so I can jump off the counter and join him.
We don’t talk. Our confessions are over. My mind isn’t filled with questions. I don’t spend the time in the shower, wondering what happens next. I don’t grow flustered, wondering about what his kisses mean.
All I concern myself with is the right now, with the way his hands skate down my back, not pausing to explore the scars left behind from the last four months.
I focus on his touch, his kiss, the way his hips roll against me when I curl my fingernails into his flesh. I listen to his moans when I bite at his skin, rather than wondering how he manages to quiet the voice in my head that I’ve answered to my entire life.
There’s nothing perfect about us, other than the fact that we’re perfect for each other, scars, past traumas, and no plans for the future included.