Total pages in book: 183
Estimated words: 174715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 874(@200wpm)___ 699(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 174715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 874(@200wpm)___ 699(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
“I love you, Cole.”
He strokes my cheek. “I love you too, sweetheart.” And with that, he leads me out of the bathroom, past several gaping women, and right back to our table, where we eat more chocolate, pay the bill, and leave. Together. The way we will face whatever waits on us in New York City, now and always.
Chapter fifty-five
Cole
Every time I think that I have never wanted to be inside Lori more, I want more—sooner, faster, harder—just more. And with her by my side, walking toward our Paris hotel room, the taste of her on my lips, I can say I have never wanted to be inside her more than right this moment. And it’s not just about sex or how much I fucking love this woman. It’s about how much I want to wash away her fears; ease her need for control, because that control is rooted in tragedy; in her father’s death and her mother’s stroke. Not that I don’t get the need for control, not that I want to take hers away. It’s the reason she needs it that I want to tear away; her fears and her past that have cut deeply, perhaps more so than she realizes. But I realize. I see what she does not. Every moment to Lori is the moment before someone pulls the rug out from under her and us. Every moment is the moment she dared to just be happy when she believes she should have been thinking about how to protect her mother, or me, or us or everyone around her. So, yeah. I want to be inside her. I want to be next to her. I want and want and want, because then she has no room to do anything but feel, moan, and want right along with me. That’s her sanity. That’s our sanity. It’s the place we can go to escape her fears until I drive them all away. And I will. Nothing that awaits us in New York City is unusual, but with her mother there and us here, the next twenty-four hours will be hell for her.
A crazy possessive need that I can’t even explain—she’s my damn wife, it’s not supposed to get much more possessive—overcomes me and I wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her closer, our legs and hips aligned. No one is taking her from me. A silly protest is not taking her from me. Fuck. What the hell is wrong with me?
I guide us across the street and to the hotel and a doorman opens the door for us. I actually have to force myself to let her go to allow her to enter the building first, but I’m right there, just behind her, quickly settling my arm back around her shoulders. She tilts that delicate chin up and gives me a soft, aroused look that tells me she feels the energy I’m radiating. I lean down and kiss her, keeping us in motion. The sooner we’re in the room, the better. The sooner I’m fucking her, and loving her—I can’t do the previous without the latter anymore—the better.
I manage to keep our pace quick but steady, and we’re now at the elevator. I punch the button, but I don’t look at Lori. If she tilts her mouth to mine again, I’m going to forget what a private person I am and devour her right here and now. For a high-end hotel, the doors open with such creeping slow-ass speed that I want to shove them open. I drag Lori into the elevator and against my body, all her soft perfect curves pressed to mine and she punches in our floor.
She tilts her chin, offering me her mouth, and I quickly turn her to face forward, resting her cute little backside against me, and holy hell, she’s now nuzzled up against the ridge of my pulsing erection. Holy hell again. I think that pretty little backside needs a spanking. Her punishment for driving me this crazy without even trying. No woman should have that kind of control over a man, even his wife, and yet, I fucking love it. The floors tick by and I lean in, inhaling that sweet floral scent of her. “No woman should leave Paris without being spanked.”
She sucks in a breath and tries to turn in my arms, but I catch her waist, a low laugh escaping my throat. There it is. The way to take her mind off the protestors and her mother. One of the few things that I haven’t done since that first night we met. “Cole,” she whispers, her hands going to mine, and my name is a rasp of desperation that is both need and panic.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” I murmur, nipping her earlobe. “I’ll make it hurt so good.”