Total pages in book: 176
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
“No! Fucking no!” I swing away fucking suddenly, not able to see this. Not ready to go through this again. “You can’t take this back. Not again.” I can’t fucking take it. I sling my arm over my face, elbow bent over my fucking brow like a kid refusing to allow he can be seen. And if I can’t be seen, I can’t be here, and this can’t be happening. A-fucking-gain! I act on instinct rather than intellect, pivoting on the toes of my boots, I storm at her.
If she won’t speak, if she won’t deny this, but God, she’ll feel my love as I take her head in my hands, my gaze fiercely demanding hers. I just stare at her, try to make her feel what I feel, the weight of my love, not my fear. My jaw is clenched so tight because I can’t trust myself to speak. Not until I’ve mastered what I want to say, not without demanding she tell me what the fuck he has said to her. Because this has Simon in it.
She promised she wouldn’t listen to him. That she’d stay the fuck away.
But I can’t say any of that as I tilt my head and slant my mouth over hers. At first, she doesn’t respond beyond the halting gasp. Next come the words I force her to swallow back as I coax her lips to open with my own. She’s pliant for a moment before rousing herself, her lips responding against mine, chasing their touch.
I don’t know what I expect to achieve. A reprieve? A stay of execution? A way to torture myself one last time? I only know I need to hold her in my arms again as snapshots of our time together flood my brain, the images feeding from one to the next like pearls on a necklace.
Each one rare. Each one priceless.
Anger, pain, hurt, the fucking injustice balls in my throat, but I swallow it back as I make her feel my love. “Talk to me, Fee. Please.” My pleas are bare whispers pressed to her face.
“I was going to write you a letter.” She bites her bottom lip as it begins to tremble. A groan rises between us from somewhere deep in hell. I feel like I’m there, at least. “I’ve been so afraid. He promised to take Lulu away—”
“That’s not happening. That’s never happening. I would kill him with my bare hands first.” Kill my own brother. Burn eternally in hell for her. “Fee. I promise you.”
“I don’t want you to kill. Please, just listen to me.”
“I won’t listen to you say you’re leaving me. I won’t let you go, not this time.”
I bring my lips hard over hers, my kiss punishing, my fingers cradling her face as I bleed my love into her.
“Please Carson,” she pants as I attack her neck. Bite over her pulse, feel her knees weaken from under her. “No!”
Her hands at my chest, she pushes hard, and I stagger backwards like a drunk, swiping the taste of her betrayal from my lips.
“You need to listen to me,” she begs, her hands a supplication between us. “I was going to write you a letter—he gave me no choice. It was you or her!”
“You never even gave me a chance,” I growl. I press my hand to the dresser behind me, curling my fingers hard against the edge.
She steps into me, balling her fists in my shirt, the dresser edge digging into my back. “Listen, just listen!”
“Why? So you can slice my heart into a million pieces?”
“So I can tell you I love you, you idiot!” She rages, succeeding in pulling my shirt loose. “I was going to write you a letter,” she says again, her voice wretched as she suddenly presses her forehead to my chest. “But all I could find to say was that I couldn’t leave you. Not now. Not ever.”
My heart lifts, but I force myself not to move, my insides a complex tangle of love, fear, and rage.
“You are worth so much more than this. Worth more than a letter. You’re worth the risk.”
Then she’s leaning forward, pressing her hands to my cheeks and her soft lips to mine. Her kiss is everything. It’s relief, a succour. It’s sheer fucking bliss.
“I fucking love you.” My chastisement echoes against her neck as her fingers begin to scrabble against my belt.
“I know. I’m sorry. Please let me love you,” she chants, as she rips my shirt over my head. “I haven’t finished what I want to say.”
But her eyes don’t say conversation as my belt come loose, and her warm hand slides into my pants. The sound that leaves my mouth is ripped and disjointed. When has a potential hand job been such a rush?
“Speak. If you can.” Because I can’t, my need to be inside her is so great as she pulls my hard cock free from the confines of my clothing. I need to own her. Keep her. Protect her from everyone but me as we tumble to the floor in an undignified heap. Fingers clutch and mouths whisper promises and love as we’re swept in a tide of relief and desire.