Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Faith is on her feet in an instant, her naked body pressed to mine, her fingers curling in my shirt all over again. “Let’s be clear, Nick Rogers. That wasn’t just for me. That was for you. That was about control.”
“Not this time.”
“Maybe you believe that, but I don’t. And I could drop to my knees and take it from you the way you just took it from me. We both know I can. But I won’t, because I now realize what I didn’t before. You don’t just want it. You need it. It’s your way, your wall. It’s how you keep people at a distance—me at a distance.”
“I just told you I’m falling in love with you, woman.”
“And you made sure I was vulnerable when you did because you were vulnerable. And I let you. I’ll let you, but not forever, because I can’t be as vulnerable as you just made me alone.” She releases my shirt and tries to move away, but there is no way in hell I’m letting her get away. Not now. And not ever.
Chapter Twelve
Nick
I cup the back of Faith’s head, dragging her mouth to mine. “Sweetheart, you aren’t alone, and if I have my way, you won’t ever be alone again.”
“That’s a long time, Nick,” she whispers, but I’m already kissing her by the time she finishes speaking my name, and as for that control she claims I am playing with, I let it go. I let her feel my unbridled need for her, and between the two of us, we are kissing, touching, all but crawling under each other’s skin. That word I never meant to say—love—is now between us, and it’s like freedom, a new kind of drug that stirs hunger in me for this woman, so fucking intense it damn near hurts.
My shirt comes off, my pants down, and it’s only a matter of time before she’s against the wall and I’m pressing inside her, lifting her, pulling her back off the wall. Holding both our weights the way I’m willing to hold us both up every moment of every day, if she’ll give me that chance. If she’ll forgive me for the way we first met. It kills me right now not to tell her. Guts me, and I have never wanted her trust so much. I urge her backward, and not just because I can now watch her breasts bounce as I pull her down on my cock and thrust it inside her—they are beautiful and fucking hot as hell—but she now has to trust me to hold her up. She has to trust me.
On some level, I know this is a fruitless endeavor. I can’t force her to trust me, not if I want to have that trust be real. And real is what she wants. Real is what I want. My hand flattens at her back, between her shoulder blades, and I drag her back to me, her head buried in my shoulder, our bodies melded together. I drive harder into her, wanting out of my own head. Wanting more of her. So fucking much of her.
“Nick,” she pants out. “Nick.”
Her voice, the grip of her sex, the rush of blood in my ears and in my cock, and a deep pull in my balls say that I am here, in that place of no fucking return, only moments after she is. I quake, my thighs burning with the force of my release and our weight. I lose reality with the force of my eruption and come back to the present to discover I’m leaning against the wall, holding Faith against me in a bear hug. And I don’t want to let her go.
My legs have another idea, and I shove off the wall, carrying her to the table next to her workstation and easing her sideways to allow her to grab a tissue. “Ready?” I ask before I set her down.
“Yes. I’m ready.”
I ease her down my body and set her on her feet, righting my pants as she tries to put her tissue to use, only to stumble. She laughs even as she’s about to go down, which makes me laugh, but I catch her arms, preventing her fall. “I’ve got you,” I promise.
Our eyes lock, the mood darkening, the pull between us fiercely present. “I know, Nick. Just don’t let go, okay?”
“Sweetheart. I’m not going to let go. That’s a promise, but don’t forget you said that and how I replied.”
Her brow furrows, and I turn away, hunting down our clothes and kicking myself over the coded gloom-and-doom message I’ve just given her. I gather her clothes and set them on the stool, and my phone rings in my pocket. Assuming it’s Beck, who’s already called me with dead-end leads today, I almost ignore it but think better. I snake it out of my pocket and glance at caller ID. “It’s Chris Merit,” I say, glancing at Faith, who is tugging her pants over her hips.