Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 66259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
“With just me?”
“Like you have to ask.” He kisses me again, I can feel the large tip of him right at my center, teasing me, back and forth, back and forth, like a slow song I never want to end.
“Sing for me.” I’d whispered.
But he saved me instead.
He slowly, achingly thrusts in, and my body welcomes him like it’s been wanting to since our first kiss in my house, since the first night it started, the first night it ended.
His mouth finds mine while his hands grip my hips and pull me hard against him, slow fluid strokes of his tongue and of his cock are in fluid sync. “I thought rockstars would be more aggressive.”
“Did you now?” he whispers against my mouth.
I kick my heels around him and pull him in tight. “Did I say I was disappointed?”
His wince brings more joy than pain as he deepens his thrusts. “Been wanting these legs around me for too many months, dreamt about them at least a dozen times in the last day.”
“Even in the shower?” I whimper when he stops.
His eyes narrow. “You saw?”
I bite down on my lower lip. “I watched.”
“Fuck me.” He pulls out of me and without asking flips me onto my stomach. “Grip the headboard.”
I grip the black wood while my shoes flip off my feet. He rests his chin on my shoulder and pulls my hair back from my skin. “Did you like it?”
When he enters me again, it’s aggressive and punishing.
I moan and grip the wood until my knuckles turn white, his hands find my breasts, squeezing them to the near point of pain. “Answer?”
“Yes,” I grunt out. “Yes.”
“Me too.” He bites down on my shoulder hard enough for me to scream and shoves his palm down the front of my stomach down between my legs. “Now I get to feel you and watch.”
“Yes,” I say it again because I can’t think of actual words as his rhythm picks up, his body’s slamming against me, his palm is rubbing against me and everything feels too good, like a rising crescendo you know will have to end but you’ll beg for a repeat.
I lean over, my hair falls across my face and I don’t scream, not when I feel my body releasing, not when I feel him tensing behind me, not when I’m staring at the wood headboard and hoping we didn’t do permanent damage yet hoping we did.
I stay like that, panting, for I don’t know how long, he doesn’t pull out of me. Instead, his hands move to mine and slowly pry them from the headboard. Still inside me, he falls back against the bed taking me with him and draws me to his side.
“Let me be here, for just one minute,” he rasps.
I want to say stay forever.
Instead, I nod and cuddle back into him.
I sigh and start playing with his hands. He’s wearing a few random rings on his right hand, and one on his left where a wedding band would be.
“Not a wedding ring. I could feel you tensing,” he whispers into my hair. “It’s more or less a reminder.”
“Of?” I ask.
“What happens when you give your heart away.”
“What’s that?”
“Abandonment. Consequences. Betrayal.”
“You don’t believe in marriage or love?” My heart is breaking for him, I mean even in my situation I would try again. I know I would. I want to. Even if I am half broken.
It’s his turn to tense. “You know what it’s like to have your deepest darkest secret, hold it close, and know there’s shame in it, and you tell someone about it and see their eyes flicker with warning and not understanding but almost horror that you never shared in the first place, when the only reason you didn’t share was because you were scared?”
Tears well in my eyes. “Actually, yeah, I do, but I don’t regret telling my truth even if it was too ugly for them to accept, too heavy for them to carry.”
“Hmm, maybe I need to hire you to write me some sad songs.”
I elbow him in the abs. “I would be excellent.”
He chuckles. “Something tells me you’re naturally good at everything, even poisoning people without actually being near food.”
“Very funny.”
We’re in a comfortable silence, he pulls away from me and disposes of the condom, but I don’t move until he flips me toward him and starts tracing the side of my hip with his fingertips. “All Smoke, All Mirrors,” he says softly still tracing but not making eye contact. “It means it’s all fake, the public persona on stage, it’s all to entertain, and to remind me that when the lights go down, and when everyone leaves—because eventually they do, life is lonely, they only want the rockstar, and I don’t want to lose myself to stage Killian Stone.”
Tears fill my eyes. “Something tells me that’s the least of your worries, especially with all your success.”