Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 105615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 422(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 422(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
I’d experienced first-hand the strength of those arms last night. Knew that they were capable of both pleasure and pain, capable of mixing the two of those together until I’d wondered which was which.
His skin was a deeper shade than mine, free of any tattoos. But not unmarked. Small scars peppered his forearms, varying in shape. Some crept onto his torso where they were larger, more ragged. He was a roadmap of pain. His entire body told the story of how he came to be this man. I wondered whether the marks on his skin cut further than just skin and tissue but went into the core of him, disfiguring him in ways I couldn’t understand, in ways that stole his ability to show emotion, compassion. My eyes ached to linger on them, but staring at someone’s scars was cruel, especially when they didn’t have the luxury of hiding them deep inside, under layers of skin and tissue.
Besides, Jay had just spoken the words of my favorite poem by heart. He was sweaty from the gym. And he was looking at me in that kind of way.
“Take off the robe,” he demanded.
My hands were at the tie before he’d started speaking, and the robe was on the floor by the time he’d stopped.
I did end up showering.
Eventually.
After three orgasms. After Jay ordered me to sit on the sofa at the end of the bed and spread my legs while he knelt in front of me and feasted on me. We eventually ended up on the floor, writhing, naked and carnal.
But I didn’t end up showering alone. We didn’t have sex in the shower. Which, somehow, only made it all the more erotic. There was something so much more personal about it. About washing each other after everything we’d just done. Every word that Jay spoke was cold, without emotion. But his gestures told a totally different story. The way his hands moved down the sides of my body, lathering up my skin. Slow. Gentle. His fingers working shampoo into my hair. The way he slept clutching me. Speaking the best line of my favorite poem in a voice of velvet and eyes of fire.
Jay did not let me wash him as he washed me. He’d taken the loofah out of my hands when I’d attempted it, his grip firm on my wrist, eyes dark with warning. I’d surrendered it, despite my need to trace his body, nurture it in a way it clearly hadn’t been nurtured.
But that, it seemed, was a hard limit for him. Any kind of tenderness. Any touch that wasn’t initiated by him. Anything that didn’t scar him, apparently.
Although I didn’t get to touch him, I did get to watch him wash himself. Move the loofah over the ridges of his taut body. Each muscle sharp, defined, marred with puckered scars. None had healed right. None appeared to have been neatly sewn by a doctor. I ached to know the history of them, and it hurt me more than it should’ve knowing I never would. So I watched. I watched him clean his body. And he watched me.
Once I’d gotten out of the shower, I realized that I didn’t have anything to wear apart from a gown that was still on the floor somewhere.
Stupid of me, considering I’d known very well that I was going to be spending the weekend here. Packing a bag with my seven-step skincare routine and some clean underwear obviously had not on my mind when I was running around yesterday getting ready.
“Put this back on,” Jay said, handing me the robe.
I watched him as I slipped it on. His towel was slung low on his hips. My eyes feasted on his sculpted abs, the Adonis belt that made my mouth water ever so slightly despite what he’d already done to me.
“I like you in this,” Jay murmured, leaning in to kiss my neck.
I shivered as his lips made contact. It was yet another intimate gesture that juxtaposed everything else about the man.
“Breakfast,” he added, stepping back from me.
“Coffee,” I corrected with a smile.
He didn’t smile back. I’d never seen him smile. It was unnerving, to smile at someone yet not have the simple expression returned.
“Breakfast,” he repeated. “You need energy. Keep up your health. It will not please me if you contract any kind of illness that affects your ability to be present on weekends.”
I pursed my lips, wanting to argue, but I wasn’t quite sure what I would say. It was up to me what I did and didn’t put in my body? That was confusing since I’d agreed, on the weekends at least, that Jay was in charge of what I did and didn’t put in my body.
Despite that, I was actually hungry. We hadn’t eaten much last night. And yesterday was a blur of preparations with just string cheeses and a couple of nuts to tide me over, since my stomach had been much too delicate to tolerate any of the food Wren had tried to force on me.