Total pages in book: 184
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
Mine and mine only.
And I will kill anyone who dares to look at him. I will—
“If you’re plotting a murder in your head, I suggest you do that on your own time.”
I jerk and look up. “What?”
Now that I’m not distracted by his bare chest—that’s tanned and lightly dusted with hair; I just want to put it out there—I take him in as a whole. And I realize that I was right. All those nights I danced for him, I always imagined him sitting sprawled on the bed, propped up against stark white hotel pillows. I always imagined his thighs wide and his body taking up the maximum space in the bed, him all authoritative and dominating. Like he’s my king and I’m his slave girl.
While all that’s true, I completely missed one thing.
I thought he’d be all lazy and laid-back as I entertained him. But those words do not apply to him at all.
I mean, he should look all casual with his one hand resting on his bent knee and the other simply settled on his thigh. But they’re both fisted and they’re fisted so tightly that his knuckles are jutted out and leached of color.
“I’m waiting,” he tells me in a low voice, his chin dipped, his dark eyes glinting.
“It’s just…” I finally manage to say, fisting my dress. “You’re so handsome.”
“Am I?”
“Yes”—I swallow—“and I was thinking that maybe I should kill all the girls out there who think the same thing.”
I think amusement flickers through his features. But it’s dark and edgy and fucking possessive. Like he likes that. The fact that I’m ready to kill for him. And if this is what he likes, I think he’s going to love me.
Because I will do it.
In a heartbeat.
“And I’ll hand you the knife,” he says, his bare chest moving with an impatient breath, “when I’m done killing all the men out there who think you’re beautiful and want you for themselves.”
“But I only want—”
“That’s not the point, though, is it?” He flexes his fist again, twisting it as if antsy and itching to fight. “The point is that it’s been a thousand years and I’m still waiting.”
And I’m done making him wait.
So another deep breath later, I go to my phone sitting on the coffee table to my right that’s all ready to go and hit play. Music fills the air and there it is: his turn.
I chose the song that requires me to spin a lot. That requires me to move my hips in ways I know he likes. He likes it when I writhe for him. When I move them in a figure eight. When it looks like I’m dancing against something.
A pole maybe.
But mostly against something that’s much hotter and I bet, thicker.
And throbbing and alive.
And maybe I’m not dancing against it but with it inside of me.
So I try to emulate that. I try to emulate how I’d rock my hips and twist them and arch my back as if I were riding his dick. I have zero experience of course, but I give it my best shot. I give it all I have. Because I’m dancing for the love of my life and I can’t let him down.
Although I do have to, a couple of minutes into it.
Because during one of my turns, I notice something. Him, getting even more on edge. As he sits up straight, away from all the pillows, his shoulders and spine rigid. His bare chest heaving with the large breaths he’s taking, his rose mouth parted. His bare skin that’s bathed in yellow light is all shiny with sweat.
But that’s not what gives me pause.
What gives me pause is the fact that he’s got his hand.
Right there.
In between his large, muscled legs.
And he’s got it exactly like he had described before. While he talked about standing at my door with his dick hard.
He’s got his hand kneading his dick.
Massaging it, pressing it like you press on a wound that’s painful and throbbing.
And big and thick and hard.
And I know his dick is all of those things because I can see it. Again, not all of it, no. Because why would he be so merciful as to give me a glimpse of everything that he is and everything he has. All I can see is that he has his zipper open, probably to let it breathe, and I can see the ruddy head of it peeking through the waistband of his pants.
And oh Lord, it’s shiny.
That head.
It’s juicy and angry and all red and oh my God, I fall. At the tiny glimpse of his dick, I stumble on my feet and come crashing down. My palms break my fall and I’m panting so hard and so loud that I think he was right.
That they can all hear me.