Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
She cries out in pleasure, and I grab a handful of her leather-covered hips and thrust harder. I see her collar and slip my fingers inside. “Oui?”
“Yes,” she moans.
I pull, choking her slightly while giving me purchase to take out all my sexual energy on her, my hips driving hard and fast as they slam against her luscious ass. I press her into the forgiving cushion of the bed and pull tighter.
Autumn’s arms give out, and she collapses, her chest and the side of her face pressed to the mattress. She reaches back for purchase, trying to touch any part of me she can get at. Her nails scrape along my hips as I thrust, adding a hint of delightful pain.
It’s too much for her. Her hands fall to the sheets, grabbing handfuls as she becomes a prisoner to my desires. I feel her clench around me, and then another orgasm makes her wail before I erupt, letting go of her collar to grab her ass. My fingers dig deep into her soft flesh, marking her skin with a memory of our desire as I ride her through our shared pleasure.
Somehow, we’ve never taken our clothes off past my tuxedo jacket, only rumpled and shoved them out of the way to gain access to one another. But as I embrace her, holding her quivering body on the bed, I feel more exposed to her than ever.
“Are you . . . okay?” I ask, carefully assessing her.
“No, I’m infinitely better than okay.” She sounds dreamy, her eyes still closed and the hint of a smile on her lips.
I run a soft touch over her ass, noting the red fingerprints already blooming amid the pinkened skin. She must sense my concern because she opens one eye, peeking back at me. “Nothing I didn’t want . . . and enjoy,” she says approvingly. “Besides, I marked you last time, remember?”
I hum, remembering the mark fondly. The bruise of her bite took days to totally fade from my skin. “I remember . . . and next time, you can do it again.”
“Next time?” Autumn echoes, and I lean in, kissing her neck gently above the collar. I make a note to check for marks there too after we get dressed. Her neck is much more delicate than the flesh of her ass, and I wouldn’t want to take things too far. But the skin there is unmarred and as porcelain as always.
“Any time,” I correct myself.
CHAPTER 19
AUTUMN
This week has been utter madness.
The naughty outing with Simon left me deliciously sore physically and distracted mentally. Selfishly, I still want the best of both worlds—the competition and Simon—and I don’t want to choose one. I want the world, I want the whole world, and I want it now, so I guess you can call me Veruca.
Simon’s affections and attention make me feel like I’ve won the lottery. He’s everything I could ever want—gorgeous, intelligent, kind, giving, romantic. A literal dream come true. But I can’t forgo the competition when I’ve worked so hard, fighting to chase my design dreams. Giving that up for a man doesn’t sit right in my soul.
Not that Simon’s asking me to.
Hell, he texted me the day after our visit to the club, and when I told him that I truly needed to buckle down on my designs, he was encouraging and supportive. In fact, he sent a gorgeous arrangement of peonies, roses, and lavender to my apartment with a note that he hoped seeing them each night would send me to sleep thinking of him. And they have.
I’ve been head-down in the workroom for hours each day, sewing like a madwoman before bringing garments back to my apartment to do even more hours of tedious and time-consuming hand stitching of the delicate lace to each piece at night before finally collapsing into bed. The flowers have been a silent cheer from Simon to keep going.
“What do you think?” I ask Jeanette. She does a half-turn in my Seduction theme finale piece, checking herself out in the mirror.
Inspired by my 1930s lingerie set, I’ve created a bias-cut dress of the finest peach silk I could find. Well, in today’s time, it can be considered a dress. In 1930, it would’ve been considered a nightgown, perhaps part of a bridal trousseau. Especially with the shimmery, semi-translucent fabric.
I scan the garment, assessing every detail. The tiny gathers below the bust make the most of Jeanette’s breasts, the lace neckline has a thin length of ribbon woven through the spaces within the lace to give it a bit of naughtiness, and the sleeves flutter just past Jeanette’s shoulders. The silk glances over her figure to the floor, except in the back, where it rests snugly and flatteringly on her ass. The walking slit in the back is cut high, to just below her butt, and it's filled in with a wide V of the same lace that accents the neckline.