Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27631 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27631 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
“You’re doing marvelously, Commander.”
He hums, studying me closely. “Let’s say you end up hitting it off with this prince.” His tone could not be sourer. “What then?”
“Then we marry, and I set about learning how to be a wife.” I fidget with a loose string on the blanket. “I know very little about that role. I’ve never even watched my mother be a wife, as my father died young.”
“Does the idea of being a wife scare you?”
“Certain things.”
“Such as?”
I chew my lip a moment. “This is such a silly reason to be nervous, but imagine having to buy gifts for someone every single Valentine’s Day and birthday and Christmas. That’s three gifts a year! How does one keep coming up with ideas?”
“This is why they invented gift cards.”
“That’s not very romantic,” I say, wrinkling my nose.
“Noted,” he mutters under his breath. “What else scares you about being a wife?”
“Well…” I hedge. “The obvious stuff. Wedding night. Intimacy.”
“You’ve never been intimate with a man,” he states.
“You didn’t have to sound so positive of that fact.”
Conrad gives me a level look. “In the car, when I told you I couldn’t lie on you without reacting, you had no idea what I meant.”
Don’t look at his penis.
Too late. I looked right at it.
“That gave me away, did it?” I ask, sounding more than a little breathless.
“Afraid so.” He seems to be judging the distance between us and deeming it too far, his body scooting an entire foot closer to mine on the blanket, the fronts of our bodies nearly touching, and my sex contracts in response. “You wouldn’t be able to lie on top of me without reacting, either, Princess.”
My skin grows hot to the touch. “A woman’s reaction is far less obvious,” I say, lowering my voice as if we’re sharing secrets. “How would you know I’m reacting?”
“I’d know.”
Change the subject. “How?” I whisper.
Keeping his gaze locked with mine, the commander rolls onto his back—a thick machine of a man covered in dappled sunlight. “It’s better to show you.” He reaches over to delve his fingers into my loosely braided hair. “Practice being a wife with me, Greta.”
A warm breeze rolls over me, but instead of cooling my body, it’s like blowing on a fire. The flames are fanned. I know very well that my relationship with the commander is unconventional. It has been since last night when I slept in his arms. The indiscretions only started to pile up when I wrapped my legs around him in the back of the SUV and felt his hunger against the seam of my riding pants. I should redraw the lines of propriety…but I don’t want to. No, I ache to leave them blurred.
“A wife would lay on top of her husband?”
“You would if you were my wife,” he says, the pitch of his voice deepening, those long fingers massaging my scalp firmly. “Or you would lie beneath me. No clothes on. And you wouldn’t lie still, either, Princess. You’d be moving. I’d be moving.” His hand drags out of my hair, fingertips traveling down my arm, leaving goosebumps behind. Stopping at my hip. Squeezing. “Come here, baby.”
I’m not sure who moves first or how I move, only that I’m brought up against his powerful body, an exhale shivering out of me at the full contact, his right hand hooking beneath my knee to draw it up, up and over his hip, my face burying in his shoulder as I slide into a straddle on top of my bodyguard, his palms splaying and riding up the outside of my thighs. Up and down, up and down, while I try not to moan over the might of his body, how perfectly he’s been constructed of muscle and flesh.
“What would a wife do now?” I whisper, lifting my head to find his pupils have expanded, his face drawn as if exerted. Strained.
And his face isn’t the only part of him that’s strained.
His zipper could burst from the burden of what’s behind it.
That ridge is pressed so firmly to my mound, teasing my flesh open, wetting it between at least four layers of clothing. Oh my God, I want to move. Grind. A foreign instinct that I know nothing about but feels so right. So inevitable.
“If you were my wife, I’d rip those tight riding pants down the middle and make you ride me like you just rode that horse.” His head digs back into the earth, his huge hands coming to settle on my backside, clutching it in two rough grips. “Fuck. I’m going to ask you to do it, anyway.”
“Ride you like a horse?” I gasp.
“Yes, Greta.” He urges my hips to punch, roll. “Just like you did in the paddock.”
I’m relieved this request is something I understand. Something I know how to do. Have mastered. Granted, I’m being asked to go cantering on a man, not a horse, but if my riding technique will give him pleasure, I want nothing more than to employ it.