Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 76812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
"It's okay if you don't—"
He shuts me up with a kiss, using the hand that isn't holding his weight off me with, to shove down his sweats.
We nearly butt heads as he kicks them from his legs, but he steadies himself rather quickly.
The warmth of his body when he settles between my legs is positively divine, and I don't hesitate to lift one leg and wrap it around his thigh, opening myself up to him.
"You're sure?"
I look up at him and take a moment to fully understand what he's offering.
I've always believed that a man gets to a certain point where no becomes obsolete, that he crosses a line and can't turn back. Looking at him now, I know that if I told him I wasn't ready for this step not only would he stop, he wouldn't try to pressure me further.
It makes me want him that much more.
"I'm sure," I tell him, lifting my head to take his mouth in a kiss.
With my permission, he rolls his hips back and forth, his thickness sliding easily through the slickness coating my clit.
I groan into his kiss, my breath hitching when he pulls back and presses forward, the tip of him sliding inside of me.
"Beck," I moan, my fingers digging into his back.
"Baby," he whispers, his jaw hanging open as he pushes forward a little more.
I swear the man somehow manages to thicken with every inch he pushes inside of me, and it's possibly the best thing I've ever felt before in my life, being stretched around him, his warm breaths and soft whispers of how good I make him feel on my neck.
He doesn't ram into me once.
He doesn't pull back so he can stare down at our connection.
He doesn't say filthy things to me or call me horrible names.
He's attentive, giving me exactly what I ask him for when it feels so good I can't help but beg for more.
He holds me like I'm a precious thing as if I'm giving him a gift when really it's him giving to me.
He rolls his hips, the lower part of his belly scraping against me in a way that almost makes me lose my mind.
"Feels so good," I whimper on a moan, my legs trembling, both wrapped around his waist.
"I swear, baby. If you don't come, I'm going to end up having to lick my cum from your pussy in order to get you there."
"Is that what you want?" I say, trying to ignore the tingle starting in my stomach.
His words are filthy, not something I ever thought would turn me on, but here I am clenching him tighter with just the thought of him doing it.
"I think I would, but I can do that even if you come. Brielle." My name sounds like a warning on his lips, but it doesn't bring me an ounce of fear.
My pussy convulses, the last scrape of his stomach over that sensitive bundle of nerves enough to push me over the edge.
"God," he grunts, the pulse of his cock deep inside of me while I come at the very same time is possibly the best thing I've ever felt in my life.
He doesn't hesitate to pull me to his chest a second after collapsing on the bed beside me.
I bite my lower lip when I'm hit with the sensation of our combined orgasm sliding against his leg. He doesn't freak out, doesn't tell me I'm disgusting like I expect any man would. Saying something in the throes of passion and actually meaning them are two very different things.
The room is quiet as we bask in the afterglow and catch our breaths. When he begins to talk, I fully expect him to mention how good the sex was or his enthusiasm about when we can do it again. I never expected what he actually says.
"My mother was a very neglectful woman," he begins. "No one should've been shocked at the number of times she chose drugs over taking care of me."
It's my turn to hold him tighter.
"She always had men in and out of our lives. We had nothing, so we'd always stay with them. None of them were ever okay with her bringing her son along with her. She took so much abuse just to score drugs."
I want to cry for the little boy I can imagine curled up in the corner trying to make himself so small that he was unnoticeable.
"I was seven when she overdosed right in front of me."
I could tell him that I'm sorry, that he deserved better, but I know those words wouldn't help me either.
Maybe that's our connection. Maybe our combined trauma is what keeps us linked, and as much as I can feel the urge to cling to him, I also know it might very well end up being the most toxic thing we could possibly do.