Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
My pulse quickens, heart pounding, but my hips keep rolling, my hand lowering, dipping between us in an awkward position, so I can grip his balls.
His chest rumbles, and then the barrel is pressed to my chest.
I jerk from the cool steel, shuddering, and he drags it lower, using it to tug my lace bra down and circle my nipples.
“Rock hard,” he muses, dipping to take one between his teeth, the gun now pressed low to my stomach, and it only goes farther south as he moves to my right breast, biting, sucking.
The tip of the weapon, the muzzle where the bullet releases from, presses over my clit, circling it, and I clench around him, my palm squeezing him in my grasp, and when he starts to make small loops over it, I cry out, tearing my hand free and gripping the sides of his face.
My pace picks up, sweat beading, orgasm cresting.
“Come for me, baby,” he whispers. “Come all over my cock.”
“You first,” I beg. “I like the way it feels right after you do.”
He groans, his head flying up and then my back hits the mattress, the gun still between my legs as he pumps into me.
My muscles lock as his do and then he bites my chest hard, and I whimper, pleasure and pain meeting in the middle as his hips jerk.
He comes, his lips meeting my ear. “Okay, Rich Girl. Give it to me.”
The harsh click of the gun, bullet now in the chamber, has me jolting, shaking, and when he licks my throat, I come with a loud moan, his lips spreading into a smile against my neck before he collapses at my side.
He lifts the gun into the air, licking over the tip, and in less than four seconds, he has the clip out, hammer pulled back and separated in three pieces, tossing them beside me.
I look to him, chest heaving, and he smirks.
“Just in case you got any ideas to use it on me.”
Rolling my eyes, I drag myself to my side, and his knuckles come up, gliding over my breast as it falls farther from my bra. I stare at him for a minute or two, waiting for my breath to even out before speaking, but what comes out isn’t what I expect.
“My mother is dead.” It comes out in a rush as if delivered as a single word.
Bastian doesn’t stiffen at my outburst, and no frown pulls over his brows.
He simply stares, hand coming up so his knuckles can glide along my jawline, encouraging me to say more.
“She died when I was eight. Poison, but my dad refuses to admit it was by someone else’s hand.” My eyes snap between his. “Want to know why?”
“Yeah, baby, I do,” he murmurs, still touching. Always touching.
“Because it means someone moved against his family, that she died because she loved him. Someone probably thought it would bring him to his knees, take him away for a while so they could swoop in and sweep us out.” I swallow, voice lowering. “They were wrong. He didn’t even cry, at least not that I saw, but he did take time off so he could stay home with us for a while. After a few days, we started being able to sleep again, but I would always wake in the middle of the night, and he wouldn’t be in the room anymore. He’d be in his study most mornings, still wearing what he did the night before. He gave up sleep and time away to be there for us, but no one ever made it past the gates if they did try. I was back here nine days after my sister found her, and eventually, it was like she never existed to begin with.”
“What do you mean back here?” he wonders.
“What?”
He pulls back a little. “You said you were back here, but she died when you were eight.”
My lips tug to the side, and for some reason, I move my gaze from his. “I’ve lived here a long time. I was only here a few weeks before she passed.”
“But you like it here?”
I smile now, my tone darkening. “Yes, I love it here, but what’s not to love, right?”
I fall onto my back, glancing around the space, and he drops and does the same, staring up at the crystal chandelier and beautiful crown molding.
“Pretty things don’t mean shit, Rich Girl.” His hand finds mine on the comforter, his fingers threading through mine. “But you know that already.”
Because the good things aren’t pretty, they’re dark and messy and confusing and wear leather jackets.
A sharp breath races through my nostrils, and he gives a little squeeze.
My heart feels the tiny tug, and worry wrapped in what the fuck am I doing whirls in my head. The feeling is foreign, dangerous.