Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
“Good morning,” he whispers, his arm wrapping around my middle.
“Morning,” I return. “I slept so hard.”
“I slept hard too,” he says, rolling his hips to let me know just how hard.
“Mmm. I can feel what you mean.”
Instead of slipping his hand lower or urging me to lift my leg so he can take me from behind, he simply presses his lips to the base of my neck once more, pulling in a long breath and slowly releasing it as his body settles further into the mattress.
His arms are around me, but I can’t read too much into that. He could want one last fuck before he tells me it’s time to head to the courthouse.
I have no doubt he’s rethinking all of it after the way I freaked out on him yesterday. I guess I should’ve offered full disclosure and told him that I not only make hasty decisions, but with that comes my uncanny ability to overreact to literally everything in my life. I also come with the very repulsive ability to read every situation as a personal attack. The paranoia could be controlled by additional meds, but I feel like the one I take is enough.
I can’t decide if that’s the disorder talking or how I actually feel.
This moment is perfect, and I don’t want to ruin it, so I pull in a deep breath and try to let my body sink into the mattress just like he did. Only contentment doesn’t appear just because I want it to.
Is this moment really perfect or does it seem perfect because I want it to be that way?
“I can smell your brain working,” he says, his voice sleepy.
I struggle to analyze whether he’s complaining or if he wants me to talk to him about what’s wrong.
But is anything wrong?
Is it me that’s wrong?
I sigh before opening my mouth to speak. “Can’t help it.”
It’s the truth, and he told me last night not to apologize. I’m taking him at his word, giving him the opportunity to prove what he said, that he’ll work on gaining my trust.
“That just won’t do,” he tells me with a quick, dry kiss to my shoulder.
A second later, he pulls the covers over his head and urges me to my back.
I whimper when he lifts my leg over his shoulder, but before he gets his mouth on me, his head pops up just below my chin.
“What?” I ask when he just stares at my face for a long beat.
“Just wanted to let you know that I kind of like that you’re a screamer.”
He’s gone before I can argue with him. He sucks my clit into his mouth, making my back arch and sounds of pleasure fill the room.
I grip the blankets but it still leaves me feeling ungrounded, as if I’m floating.
I pull the blankets back, using a grip on his almost too-short hair to tether myself in his reality.
He looks up at me, face flushed from the heat under the blankets, tongue literally on the up swipe of my clit.
“Wanna watch, sweetheart?”
I bite my lip in response, dipping my head once.
“I fucking love that about you.”
Love.
I swallow against the way that word makes me feel.
This isn’t love, and it would be a mistake to let that word tangle inside my head. It has the ability to plant roots, to make me see things in a different light, something possibly opposite of what reality actually is.
“Feels good,” I say, instead of the words my head suggests.
He presses against my thighs, angling my body upward, giving him access to literally every intimate part of me, and he doesn’t hesitate to include it all in his attention.
When he thickens his tongue and slips it inside my pussy, I yell my pleasure, the sound pulling a chuckle from his chest as he continues to stab me with it, his nose somehow playing an integral part of my pleasure.
I didn’t scream because it’s something he likes. It erupted from me before I could stop it. It just so happens to prove his point, and, somehow, I’m okay with that. This is one of those times I don’t mind being wrong.
“Coming,” I tell him, my hand tightening on his hair.
He grunts his approval, taking me over the edge when he tosses a couple of fingers into the mix.
He tortures me with his mouth and hands until I’m spent, sweating, and gasping for air.
Instead of dropping to the side and giving me time to recover, he reaches into the bedside table.
I don’t consider asking him to wait. As strong as the orgasm was, it left me wanting more. More, more, more. That’s what I need from him.
I ignore the hesitation, that whisper of cognizant thought trying to remind me that insatiable appetites for anything, be it shopping, sex, or any other activity related to a rush of endorphins, might be something to pause and evaluate.