Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 142728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Why did I feel the need to take that thought further?
She doesn’t seem to mind, though. She smiles softly. “Me too.”
The unpleasant, soggy condom on my softening dick registers and I groan. “Give me a second.”
“I’m going to run downstairs real quick.” She presses a kiss to my lips and scoots out of the bed, scooping up her shirt and slipping it over her head.
“I wanted you right here when I get back.” I pat the mattress.
“Well, I need to pee.” She leans in and kisses my cheek. “And I’d rather not do it in the bed.”
Rumbling with laughter I stand and shake my head. “How are you so sassy in the dead of night?”
She gives me a quick shrug. “Probably from the multiple orgasms.”
I might have a problem. I can’t seem to sleep more than a couple of hours without pawing Emily.
At least there’s sunlight spilling into the room this time. She’s still out cold, allowing me to enjoy the sight of her breasts spilling out around the edges of her tank top.
A faint red line along the side of her right breast catches my attention. Frowning, I lean in closer, careful not to wake her. It’s thin, pinkish red with whiteish jagged edges, like someone didn’t stitch it properly. I’ve had my hands and mouth all over her body. How’d I miss that scar?
Because you’re always busy shoving your face between her legs.
It’s not an implant scar. Fuck knows I’ve seen enough fake tits to know the scar would be somewhere less noticeable. And I’ve spent plenty of time with my hands and mouth on Emily’s breasts. They’re a hundred percent real.
It’s not a self-harm scar, either. It’s too difficult a spot for her to reach and it’s only the one line. I’m not an expert, but the cutters I’ve known go for easy-to-reach and hidden places—arms and upper thighs are what I’ve seen the most. I want to turn her over and check her other side, but don’t want to risk waking her.
She rolls her head to the side and her hair fans away from her face. Another fine red line runs along her neck, under her jaw.
Like someone once held a knife to her throat.
Fury races down my spine at the thought of anyone hurting her.
“Why are you staring at me?” she mumbles.
I lift my hand and trace my finger over the scar on her breast, then her neck. “What happened, baby?”
She sucks in a deep breath, coming fully awake. “What?”
I inch closer, pressing my lips against the line along her breast, then move up closer to kiss the one on her neck. “Did someone hurt you?”
She turns over and blinks up at me, sleep rapidly being replaced by anxiety in her eyes. “I suppose you’re too smart to buy the underwire from my bra stabbed me?”
I tilt my head. She can’t be serious. “It get your neck too?”
“Damn it.” She sits up and fixes her tank top to cover herself and pulls her hair over her shoulder, fluffing it around her neck. “I don’t want to talk about that.”
I open my mouth to argue with her, then close it. As much as it’s killing me, I’ll wait until she’s ready to tell me.
She glances at me over her shoulder. “You’re not going to keep badgering me with questions?”
“Do you want me to?”
“No.” She shifts to the edge of the bed. “I’ll be right back.”
I wrap my hand around her arm, stopping her. “Where are you going?”
“I don’t know,” she whispers, misery and defeat clinging to her voice.
I inch closer and wrap my arms around her waist, dragging her into the middle of the bed. “Then stay here and let me hold you.” I kiss her cheek, furious with myself for starting this. “I think every inch of you is beautiful, Emily.”
That apparently wasn’t the reassurance she was looking for. She tries to pull away but I hold on tight.
Her jaw clenches. “I don’t care about the scars. I barely notice them anymore. They’re just there.” She rubs her fingertips over her chest. “Like freckles or something.”
“They’re not that noticeable.”
She scowls even harder. I really should shut the fuck up.
“They remind me of what a dumbass I was when I was younger,” she says with the heat of self-loathing.
I choke on the weight of her words. “I’m familiar with that feeling,” I say, releasing her.
She turns, tucking her leg underneath her so she can face me.
“Do you really want to hear this?”
Her volatile response has me prepared for the worst. “If you want to tell me.”
“I think I’ve told you my parents were kind of strict with me. Having me so young didn’t inspire them to give me much of a sex education. They only told me, ‘don’t.’”
I snort at the absurdity. “Not an effective plan for curious teenagers.”