Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
“I’m going home.” I reach for my clothes on the floor. “Don’t you dare stop me, don’t you dare.” He grabs me and pulls me up to my feet, then yanks me to his hard chest.
I start to fight him. Far stronger than I am and just as exasperated with us, Ian grabs my hand, curling his palm around my fist to halt me. “You’re scared, Sara, and that’s all right. But don’t think for a second I’m not scared too. I don’t mean to hurt you. I’m not letting you go and I am not fucking leaving. But I’m fucking open here—and it doesn’t feel very good.”
“See? You’re scared!”
“You’re fucking right I’m scared—I’m fucking in love with you! If I used to feel anything for my ex-wife, it pales in comparison to what I feel for you—do you get me, Sara?” He shakes me, his iron control suddenly snapping. “Do you, baby?”
My eyes sting as a raw and primitive reaction to his words takes over me, and I nod. We both fall still. Suddenly, I wind my arms around his neck and press my face to his, my eyes blurry as I press my nose into his throat. “My dad loved my mom…” I painfully remind him.
“I’m not your dad.”
I swallow. “I’m not your wife, either. You need to trust me. You need to—”
“I do; just be patient with me, Dancer.” Radiating frustration, he grabs my face in both hands and tips my gaze up to his, his eyes roving painfully slowly over my features. “I may fuck up sometimes and one day I may not be there on an important day, but I’ll try. And if I sometimes don’t have the right words, help me find them. And if you need something I’m not delivering, steer me in the right direction… please,” he hisses. “Please.”
“I will,” I breathe, my hands clamping on his hard jaw. “Love me. I love you like I never thought I could love anyone.”
“I do. Fuck, woman, I do.” He lifts me up in his arms and we’re kissing passionately, both a little drunk, a little too unhinged, a little too open. When Ian drops me on the bed, I claw at his slacks, needing his touch, his skin, his love.
“Hard,” I beg as he drops his slacks and boxers and kicks them aside. “As hard as possible, and don’t stop until morning.”
Ian’s tongue drags down my throat and cleavage as he spreads my thighs open, grabs his cock, and drives in so hard, I see stars. I claw at his back, bite his neck. Ian drags his hands up my sides, cupping my breasts in his warm palms, then curling a hand around my neck as he ducks to suck on my nipples. His hand stays on my throat, and suddenly he lifts his head. “Look at me. Look at me, damn you.”
I look at him, my pulse fluttering against his palm. I’m so undone by this guy that I wonder if I’ll ever be complete without him. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.” I hit his chest, my eyes wet with tears.
He gentles the pace, gentles his voice. “I’m too busy fucking you. Huh. Who’s fucking you?”
“You. Motherfu—”
He kisses me. Wipes a tear from my cheek. His face raw. “I wanted here. All fucking day I wanted here.”
I stroke my fingers down his jaw, gasping and thrashing as I moan. “I want you here, Ian. Always.”
“You do shit to me. I don’t like it either, but it’s there. It’s here.” He drops a hot kiss to my left breast, licking his way back to my mouth. “It’s everywhere, all the damn time, Sara. You’ve got me twisted up and I’m in so deep, I’m not planning to do anything about it but go deeper, baby.”
I groan softly as he flicks his tongue into my mouth. He rolls his hips harder, over and over, faster and faster, the tempo of our kiss increasing in synchrony with his thrusts, my own hips pushing up to meet his.
It’s a dance—and as much as I love dancing, I’ve never loved anything as much as I love doing this with him. Every part of my body is alive and moving, straining, searching for Ian, reaching for Ian, more and more Ian. Ian’s movements stimulate mine, just like my touches and kisses stimulate his. I’ve seen dancers move on stage, but I’ve never felt a man move so beautifully—or dance this dance or any other dance so fiercely—with me before. We’re the song and the dance, the tune and the variation, the violin and the player… the ache and the balm that heals it.
Ian’s own wild hunger somehow makes this dance of ours even rawer, more primitive. A dance you can only dance in the dark, or by yourself, or with your mate, so raw and primal that you don’t need lessons—you just move and follow the ache. Feed the ache. And nothing aches as much as my need for this guy.