Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
A pulsing rush of sensation overcomes. I see lights and stars, my mind punching out as my body takes over.
19
MIMI
I wake like I’ve been shaken violently, my body trembling under the sheets. I’m alone, and the room is silent. There are no children kicking a ball in the neighbor’s yard. No hum of the radio playing downstairs in the kitchen. Just the sound of my heart hammering in my ears. It’s disturbingly still, the air around me pitchblack.
Like a coffin.
I jerk upright with a sick sense of panic, pressing my hand over my tripping heart.
I can’t be dead, I think as I glance down, feeling a slight breeze of central air. Dead people aren’t naked. Well, maybe they are at some point, but not in heaven, surely. But then I realize heavenly bodies probably aren’t wrapped in sheets that reek of sex. They don’t smell of masculine shower products.
I rub my cheek against my shoulder and stretch like a cat. I smell like Whit. And rightly so. His bed. His bath. His bathing products he washed me with in middle of the night. I shiver as I recall the soapy slide of him. I can still feel the press of him between my legs.
I fumble for the bedside lamp, then pad across the vast bedroom floor toward the bathroom. Air brushes my skin, a sensation I wouldn’t ordinarily recognize. I feel wholly sensual as I stride across the floor, uninhibited by my nakedness. Am I changed? Has one night with Whit altered me so much? According to the mirror, not so much. I look a fright. My hair looks like a huge tumbleweed, my skin marked and reddened in places my own mouth couldn’t reach. But I am stupidly happy—I mean, who isn’t not to be dead—my smile so ridiculously goofy as I brush my fingers through my hair.
While I might not be dead, I’m pretty sure I got a glimpse of heaven last night during orgasm number two. The first time I felt Whit move inside me. I reach out, gripping the cold stone vanity, screwing my eyes tight as my body undergoes a ripple of sensory memory. It was everything I ever imagined and a thousand times more. His shoulders over me, blocking out the light, made me feel so small. The way he’d moved inside me, he owned me in those moments. The taut length of his neck, his expression almost pained as he’d pressed himself to me, undulating as he’d reached his climax.
It wasn’t sex. It was a communion. A mind-bending, thigh-shaking, religious experience. And I will never feel the same about sex again. Except I will—I’ll feel like this over and over for what’s left of my not quite six-month hiatus from my real life. And if that thought doesn’t make me smile, I don’t know what’s responsible for this ridiculous happy dance!
Back in the bedroom, I exchange the towel I’d wrapped around myself for Whit’s shirt from last night. As I pull it from the chair, I note my dress and underwear, wavering from a moment in my decision. Should I get dressed properly? Or take a clean shirt from his closet. But then it wouldn’t smell of him, I decide as I slide it on, pressing my nose into the collar as I inhale. The scent of him makes my insides turn all gooey again.
“You seem deep in thought.”
I press my hand to my chest as I spin to the doorway. “Oh my gosh, you scared me!”
“Sorry,” he says, not sorry at all, judging by his expression and the way his eyes flit over my bare legs. He’s already dressed in dark jeans and a gray fine knit sweater that clings to the flat of his stomach and molds to his biceps. He slides his hands into his pockets, resting his shoulder against the doorframe.
“How long have you been standing there?”
“It’s too early for confession. Breakfast?” he adds, his expression turning purposely bland.
“What’s on offer?”
“Keep looking at me like that and you’ll be breakfast.” His lips curl, part seduction, part amused.
That is totally where my mind went, but is it any wonder when he looks so delicious? “Who says I’m looking at you like anything?” I answer instead.
“You think I have an overactive imagination?”
I affect a small shrug.
“Pity.” The way his eyes slide over me feels like the brush of silk against my skin.
“How’s your lip?” It looks better than last night. It’s just a little swollen, and there’s barely a hint of bruising.
His finger lifts as though to touch it. “Why don’t you come and take a look at it yourself?”
I can’t believe he went for that asshole, and I can’t believe I find physical violence such a turn-on. “Looks good from here.” I slide the sides of his shirt a little closer, feeling as though my naughty thoughts are exposed.