Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
And then he’s there, the tip of him pressing to my slickened flesh.
This entire interaction feels like a fantasy, like something I’m dreaming about rather than actually happening.
It’s not entirely different to the way I felt when I came home New Year’s Day with all the information on who Will really is. Only this time is all pleasure and bliss rather than pain and regret.
Despite knowing it’s real, I allow myself the opportunity to forget everything else.
You don’t ask a man in your fantasy to wear a condom. You don’t remind him of the risk of pregnancy or STDs. Disease doesn’t exist in fantasies, and there’s just something wild and feral about a man’s cum dripping out of you that speaks of possession and ownership, acceptance even.
Lifting my legs higher, he whispers praise against my skin as he sinks inside of me, our mutual groans echoing around the room.
This—him—is exactly what I need, and that’s why I bite at his shoulder and scratch my fingertips down his back until he winces, pulling his head back to look down at me.
I want the rough. I want the dirty mouth and the commands.
I don’t deserve the care he’s showing me right now.
I need to be used and left feeling like the horrible person I now see myself as.
My mouth falls open on a groan, Spade proving that he’s just as good with the slow and sensual as he is with the fast and hard.
My body is obeying his, readying for release as my internal muscles spasm down the length of him.
“Fuck,” he snaps, his word a contradiction to the slow roll of his hips.
Most men would speed up. They’d chase their own pleasure, but as I’ve come to discover, Spade isn’t most men.
“Your mouth,” he urges when I look away. “Give it to me.”
I feel weightless, only tied to the earth by his body on top of mine as he brushes his lips over mine.
His breaths are staccato bursts on my mouth, and it’s as if the man is breathing his own life into me.
My arms circle his waist, fingers digging into his muscled ass as I urge him deeper.
The grind of his pelvis is the perfect addition to the way he finds the end of me with each slow thrust forward. Jesus, I wouldn’t even call it a thrust. He’s simply gliding in and out of me, his arms locking me in place. My nightgown is bunched under my chin, the crisp hairs on his chest teasing my nipples.
But it’s the way he watches me now, teeth clamped into his lower lip as if he’s getting just as much out of this as I am.
“Spade,” I whisper. “You’re going to make me come.”
A small smile teases the corner of his mouth, but he just looks pleased with my declaration. There isn’t pride or ego in his eyes as my mouth falls open on a silent cry and my body caves to his insistence.
He pulses then, the inside of me detecting each pulse of his own orgasm, and that pleased look in his eyes turns to one of relief as if he’d been holding back, waiting for me for long moments, unwilling to give in until I crested the top of my release.
It’s exactly what I needed, and somehow he knew it without asking.
I wish I could stop the renewed tears, but I feel them coming, my nose starting to burn the second he shifts his weight beside me.
Instead of freaking out or running off to the bathroom, he simply pulls me back to his chest and holds me as I cry.
Chapter 28
Spade
Adaptation to my surroundings has always come easy to me. Probably because I never let myself get too comfortable. It opens me up to making mistakes.
That being said, I never felt uncomfortable in Sylvie’s house.
Until this morning.
Usually, I’m a go-with-the-flow sort of guy. I know plans are never concrete, so I’m not really bothered if they change. I know moods shift, and I know not to always expect the same from people because they’re just as prone to different emotions as the next person.
Yet, right now, I have no idea how to act or what to say as I watch Sylvie shuffle into the kitchen in that fucking long nightgown.
I know how my body is reacting, but I don’t know what words I should use with her this morning.
Add in the sight of my marks on her neck, I know what I want to say, or better yet, how I want to act. It’s being unsure of how she’s going to respond if I wrap my arms around her waist and put my mouth on hers again.
I’ve always felt kissing was overrated. You can get to the end goal without complicating things with a kiss on the lips.
Last night rocked my fucking foundation.