Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 53725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 269(@200wpm)___ 215(@250wpm)___ 179(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 269(@200wpm)___ 215(@250wpm)___ 179(@300wpm)
As soon as we’re on an elevator in my building, Alana turns to me and says, “I’m sorry.”
I pull her into my arms and cup her head, and just holding her close is like coming home. Like fulfilling every need I’ve ever had in this lifetime right here, right now, with her. “I’m sorry, too,” I say, “for so many things, Alana.” And then I kiss the hell out of her. I press my tongue to hers, and drink her in with slow, long licks, and savoring every taste as if it might be my last. I need this woman. I have to have her. And right now, I don’t care why she deserves better. I just don’t care.
The elevator dings, and I force my mouth from hers, but it is no easy task. If I had my way, I’d fuck her right here, and then do it again in my apartment. But she has limits, I do not. I catch her hand again and lead her down the hallway to my door. When we’re there, I punch in the door code, and repeat it out loud. “Learn it, Alana. You’re moving in with me. You can’t be my fiancée and not live with me.”
“I don’t think that’s a rule,” she says.
“It’s my rule.”
I shove open the door and a few moments, later, we’re locked inside and I’m already kissing her, on my way to burying my demons inside an angel. But I don’t think there’s any saving me now. I’m going to hell before this is over, and I won’t take her with me.
Chapter Forty-One
Alana
I don’t know what it says about me, but this dark, edgy side of Damion turns me on. He’s kissing me and his hands are all over me, and I don’t want him to stop, but somehow, I have the mental capacity to know he’s wrinkling my dress.
“My dress,” I pant against his mouth. “I have to wear it to dinner. We’re wrinkling it.”
He stares down at me with impatient eyes. “Then take the fucking thing off. Now. Please. For the Love of God.”
I laugh and offer him my back. “Unzip me.”
He grunts and yanks at it, struggling. “I’m going to break the damn thing off,” he murmurs while fiddling with it.
At this point, I’m as impatient as him and when I finally slip out of the dress, I carefully throw it over a chair. He comes up behind me, wraps himself around me, and his hands are so many places, doing so many delicious things to me, I can do nothing but moan from the onslaught of sensations. I moan as his lips press to my ear, his breath warm and wicked on my neck. “You, Alana,” he says.
“What about me?” I whisper, catching his hand on my breast.
“It’s always been you,” he confesses.
I tremble inside and suck in a breath at the words I never thought I’d hear. “Damion,” I whisper.
He answers by turning me to face him, our mouths close as he says, “Always you,” and then his mouth slants over my mouth in a raging kiss that leaves me trembling all over again and us all over each other. At some point, he hikes me onto what I think is the kitchen counter and yanks my panties away, leaving me gasping in shock.
In a rush of kissing me and shoving down his pants, nothing separates us, and he scoops me into him, fingers in the slick heat of my sex a moment before he presses inside me. I pant with how hard he is, how thick, how he stretches me, easing into me, until he drives deep, and I’m moaning with the impact, clinging to his shoulders.
At some point he shoves down my bra and lifts me, holding all my weight, pulling me hard into his thrusts and pumps. It’s wild, erotic, frenzied in a wickedly fast way that has me shattering and he’s shuddering way too fast, and somehow not fast enough. I end up back on the counter, and his face is buried in my neck, my arms draped around him.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
I laugh and drag my fingers through his hair. “Why do you ask that?” He inches back to look at me, searching my face for confirmation, and I laugh all over. “Of course, I’m okay. I just had an orgasm with you inside me on your kitchen counter.”
“It’s not very romantic.”
The idea that he wants to be romantic pleases me almost as much as what just happened. “Are we trying to be romantic? Because it was hot make-up sex, and that ranks right up there with romantic.”
He studies me again, looking for something, I don’t know what, and says nothing until he lifts me again. “Come on.” I hold onto his neck and end up in a bathroom that looks more like a resort spa, with a claw tub, a rain shower and a window view of the city.