Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
When he’s had his fill, he gently drapes my hair over one shoulder exactly like the hairstylist arranged it. For some reason, this frightens me the most—that I didn’t notice for how long he’d been watching me. Stalking me. That I didn’t see him sooner. But I felt him. My instinct wasn’t wrong.
At the same time as his weight lifts off me, the iron vise of his fingers around my neck tightens. He uses the leverage to hold me in place while reaching between us with his free hand. It takes me a moment to realize what he’s doing. I don’t fully believe it until I hear the clank of his buckle. The grate of his zipper.
I bring my hands from behind my back and splay my palms over his chest. Instead of pushing him away, I bury my fingers beneath the fabric of his jacket. The push and pull is like being caught in a current, but it’s not the gentle lapping of the sea on the shore at low tide. It’s the rough and violent lashing of spring tide.
He grips my wrist, squeezing with too much force. I look down. His fly is open, and his cock is freed. He’s hard, his thick length jutting out from the dark fabric of his pants. It’s the only part of him that’s undressed, the most intimate part. The sight is erotic, more than I expected. He’s big, the crown large. I home in on the veins running under the velvety skin along his shaft, on how the skin around the head is darker, and on the moisture leaking from the tip.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he says, lifting my hand to his lips and sucking my thumb into his mouth. His tongue is warm and wet, the tip curling around my digit. He pulls my thumb from his lips and drops my hand. “You’re going to regret it.”
I don’t know if he means taking off his ring or allegedly giving my v-card to someone else. Both, probably.
I almost do regret it when he bunches the hem of my dress in his hand and yanks it up to my waist. I’m watching him watching me, his gaze fixed on the triangle of silk that’s damp with my arousal.
He fastens his hold on my neck, giving me just enough air to breathe. Not enough. “You’re ungrateful and disobedient. Behaving like a slut doesn’t become you.” He eases his grip a little, letting me drag in a lungful of oxygen. “What did you do with my ring?”
I don’t know what comes over me. Maybe I just want him to take this too, to break the magic spell he’s cast on me so that this can be over. To take my last first and let me live in peace.
Another untruth tumbles from my lips, its cruelness sparked by a desperate need to even the score between us. “I gave it to him. He took it as payment for popping my cherry.” The nasty fabrication is vile, but he’s the one who taught me to lie.
He closes his hand so hard around my neck that my vision goes blurry. His face is a fuzzy picture behind a veil of fog as he dips his fingers under the elastic of my thong and tugs. A rip tears through the space. The thong slides down my thighs and brushes my ankles. My sight fades around the edges as I feel him between my legs, a hot, hard, velvet fist that wedges between my folds. We’re both slick. When he brushes the tip over my clit, pleasure hits my core.
“You’re such a slut, Sabella,” he says, his words coming to me through a gushing noise in my ears.
As if to validate the statement, I curl my fingers around the lapels of his jacket, instinctively holding on.
He taps my clit two, three times with the head of his cock, a light reprimand. A sweet punishment. “But you’re my slut.”
Proving the point, he tears into me.
I think I may pass out, and not from a lack of air. The way it hurts is excruciating. My lips part, but no sound escapes. It’s the worst torture, being torn in two.
He stills, pulls back to look at me, and eases up the pressure on my neck. His face comes back into focus. Somehow, I feel everything more intensely, as if my nerve endings have been starved for oxygen like my lungs, and the sudden rush brought on an onslaught of sensations.
“No,” he says, sounding angry. Concerned. “No, no, no.” He looks down at where we’re joined. “Sabella, you’re a wicked liar.”
The vengeance isn’t as satisfying as I thought it would be. The buzz of the alcohol isn’t enough to dull the discomfort when he starts moving. I bite off a cry of pain.