Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Hunter lets go of my wrists but nods for me to keep going.
“Then, he wanted to go to couple’s therapy. We did. We worked on our marriage for six fucking months, all through the football season.” Having said that much, I can’t keep the worst part down anymore. “Near the end, he finally admitted he’d cheated on me. He said it had happened once. He asked me to forgive him. I said I didn’t know if I could. But he begged for a few more sessions. Then, at our last session, he and the therapist ambushed me. They sat me down and Oliver told me he’d cheated on me a few different times over the three years we were together, and with a few different men, and now he was having an affair with the shrink and they were in love.”
“Oh, shit,” Hunter says.
“Oliver’s with him now, and he does these videos where he talks about how he and Lon have had to forgive themselves for all their feelings. But he never says what really happened, and I don’t either, because it’s fucking personal.”
“He is a great and absolute twat,” Hunter declares.
It’s a relief he doesn’t resort to the usual platitudes like It’s not your fault or You must feel awful.
“A total twat,” I echo, then let out a deep breath. “Sorry to dump that on you.”
“I get it. And I’m sorry if I seemed secretive on top of wanting to ‘talk,’” he says, sketching air quotes.
I try to make light of my overreaction. “It’s fine. Talking to you isn’t so bad.”
“Good,” he says, sounding happy once again.
Hunter’s given me so much understanding. I need to do the same for him. “I get, too, why you wouldn’t want to say who your dad is. You want to be your own man,” I say. “I do want that,” Hunter says sincerely.
We’re silent for a few seconds and my eyes stray down his body to the waistband of his briefs.
To the outline of his erection?
“Are you…hard?”
Hunter looks at the ridge in his boxer briefs. Then he shrugs, not at all innocently. “Don’t sound so amazed. It’s an environmental hazard around you.”
“Yeah?” My chest warms.
“I’m extremely turned on by you,” he says.
My rain clouds disappear. I lift my hips, letting him feel that I’m getting aroused too. I thread a hand into his thick waves of hair, tug him close to my face. “Come here,” I say.
“Gladly,” he says, and I feel like my body is made of sunshine and sex as I pull him on top of me, my chest hair rubbing against his. Has it been more than twenty-four hours since I kissed him? Probably, with the time change. Feels like forever. “Been too long since I touched you,” I murmur.
“I’ve been dying,” he says, all husky.
I misread him so badly. I need this so much. “Kiss me,” I whisper.
“Anytime,” says the man I drunk-married.
He seals his mouth to mine. I’m stone-cold sober, and he tastes spectacular—a little minty, all fresh, and so hungry.
I take a tour of his lips, spend my sweet time saying hello again.
My hands rope tighter into his hair, and I tug him closer. He moves with me, capturing my hands this time, curling our fingers together. He’s got me pinned, and yet I’m kissing him, and the whole thing is mind-bogglingly good. I don’t know who’s leading and who’s following, and I don’t care.
Hunter grinds against me, kissing me with as much fervor and heat as I give him. But soon, I need more. My body’s dying for it. More contact, more connection.
I easily push free of his hands so I can move mine down his body. This is what I want. To touch Hunter everywhere. My palms roam along his firm back, muscled and toned, then to his ass. I cup his cheeks and squeeze.
“Mmm. This ass,” I murmur against his lips, breaking the kiss.
He pushes up, bracing on his palms on the mattress on either side of my head. His eyes flood with desire as he gives a long, heated nod. “Do that again.”
I squeeze harder, groaning louder.
“Oh, god,” he grunts.
I just smile as I spread my hands over the globes of his ass.
“You have really big hands,” he says, a low heated intensity in his voice.
“Never been praised in bed for my big hands,” I murmur, then give him another firm squeeze.
“Oh you should be, Nate. You fucking should be,” he says, his eyes floating closed.
I let my fingers do the talking, sliding under his boxers, exploring his smooth ass, dipping lower, then lower still, till I push one against his entrance.
We both groan.
His eyes fly open.
I’m caught in a vortex of lust and desire so strong, so potent I don’t ever want to escape from it. I want this moment to last forever—Hunter gazing down at me with dark, dirty deeds in his brown eyes.