Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
“Oh.”
That tiny sound seems to be a signal, our kiss deepening, tongues tangling. He kisses the corner of my mouth, my jaw, his touch beginning to slide down my neck.
“Like champagne.” He presses the rumbling words into the sensitive skin, his big hands squeezing and pressing me closer.
“Raif.” His name is more moan than reprimand because his lips on my neck and the thick, hot feel of him does something wonderfully horrible to my insides. “Oh God.” So good, but…
I’ve been here before. I’ve let a man control the situation and get the better of me. Why this time—why now?
Because he kisses so well? Or because he’s set this whole thing up to see me again?
“M-more like chardonnay,” I stutter, even as I turn my head to give him better access to the sensitive skin of my neck.
He makes an inquiring sound against my throat, but his mouth doesn’t stop.
“The s-stuff we serve at showings. In p-plastic cups!”
A lick, a graze of his teeth, and I spiral into sensory overload. What’s happening to me? I’m the one who controls the situation—the narrative. But right now, all I can do is take.
His hand slides up my back, anchoring it in my hair. My pleasure/pain receptors fire and snap, my hair follicles somehow hardwired to the place between my legs. But then his frown becomes the sudden focus of my vision.
“Did you say plastic cups?”
“Yes.” But he doesn’t seem to be paying attention because he’s kissing me again, taking my bottom lip between his teeth.
Weir—d.
Or maybe not as his tongue lushly follows.
I swallow, my breath tight, and my response husky. “The horrible, cheap stuff.”
He makes a sound like I just said something salacious as he gives my bum a thoroughly dirty squeeze.
“Oh…”
Dark and clever, his next kiss is a raid—a steal your livestock, burn down your village, pillage your existence kind of kiss. Raif kisses as though to consume, the charged air around a sudden explosion of need as fingers grasp, as lips slide and fuse, and tongues thrust.
I moan as my longing pours out of me, hunger making my fingers scrabble at his shoulders. If heaven or the angels try to intercede now, they’d clutch their pearls as I squeeze my hand between our bodies.
“Oh!” I guessed he was big—he has that energy—but that feels kind of immense.
“Fuck.” He gives a low, throaty growl, but before I can get any further, his hands slide down my body to scoop me up.
Then we’re moving, and it’s all such a blur as I’m suddenly deposited on the desk.
“You taste of champagne,” he rasps. “Where the fuck did the cheap chardonnay come from?”
“The wholesaler.” I wrap my hand around the back of his neck to bring his mouth back to mine before I burst from my skin.
“Oh. Oh.” The scruff on his jaw is a blaze of sensation across my shoulder, and my nipple hardens under his palm. His thick thigh comes between my knees, the silk of my dress parting at the split, giving him a knicker flash for free. The hard length of his cock nudges against my softest spot, and I arch against him. My nails dig into his back as I grind against him. “Yes!” I feel like I’m losing my mind.
“Sanity is overrated,” he growls.
Oh, that is so true…
3
LAVENDER
Sanity. Sanity, return to me because what the hecking hell am I doing?
“I don’t—” I begin, my voice a bare rasp. “I mean, I don’t ever…” do this. One-night stands. Sex with virtual strangers. Hell, I can’t ever remember the last time I had sex. But I want. God, do I want.
This is just not me. Not that I owe him an explanation. Not that he waits for one as his big hand curls around my hip. Squeezes. Glides up my rib cage. I bite back a moan as his thumb draws a teasing circle against my nipple.
“Can I?” From under his lashes, his eyes meet mine. His question sounds so earnest. If only he knew I was on the verge of insisting on it.
I realize he’s still waiting, so I nod. His thumb dips into the low neckline, sliding the fabric across my shoulder. It falls like a dropped purse strap to my elbow.
“So pretty,” he murmurs, fully exposing my breast. Taking the weight into his hand, he brushes his thumb across its pert center. Once, twice. “You like that.”
“If you have to ask—”
His fingers are firm, and my brain cells explode as he tugs.
“Oh!” Air leaves my lungs in a short, hot burst.
The light makes his hair shine like an oil slick as his head dips. His mouth is hot, wet, and magic as it closes over my now hyper-sensative nipple. My soft moan is an approval, the way I press myself to him, a demand. He circles. Flicks. Gives a sucking pull that resonates deep between my legs.