Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 106001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Our lips coming together as we kiss while we fuck.
Then, as I lower myself, my breasts pressed to his chest, my fingers in his hair, his hands come down on my ass. Curling around me. Possessively.
So damn possessively. Like his voice, too, urging me on. “Did you picture this?” he asks, calling back to my admission earlier in the day.
“So much.”
“Me too,” he says, hot and urgent.
“Yeah?”
“A few nights ago. A week ago. A month ago,” he rasps out in quick succession, and with each confession, another fire ignites, burning brightly.
He’s wanted me the same way for some time too.
And he shows me with how he fucks me, with deep, passionate thrusts.
I gasp. A sharp, fevered intake of breath as he hits someplace inside me that bathes my brain in pleasure.
We fit perfectly, legs and hips twined, lips and breath tangled. He slides a hand between my thighs, his thumb finding my center, and I’m chasing the climax that’s hunting me down.
My toes curl, and my spine tingles. He looks in my eyes, and the intensity of his gaze is almost too much to bear.
I close my eyes, the world turning black and beautiful as I cry out.
Then, seconds later, his fingers dig into my flesh, and he’s pumping, thrusting, and grunting as he comes undone too.
A few minutes later, after we straighten up, I tense, standing stock-still in the bathroom hallway, expecting him to get dressed, say goodbye, and take off into the night.
But then, his clothes are still wet and hanging on the rack in my bathroom.
I glance at them. “I guess you’re stuck for a little while.”
With a you know it grin, he just laughs. “I’m stuck, Harlow. I’m definitely stuck.”
He slides back into bed with me, his warm, naked body pressed to mine. He’s not staying because he has nothing to wear. He’s staying because there’s no place he’d rather be.
I’m light-headed, buzzed on the new sensations still rippling through my body. I trace my fingers down his chest.
He reaches for my hand, kisses my fingertips. “The shoe you found today?”
I still for a moment, cycling back to this afternoon. Oh, right. The purple Converse. “The one on the sidewalk?”
“Yeah.” He takes a pause, holds my gaze importantly. “It’s not lost. It’s found.”
I try not to read too much into the found.
Truly, I try.
But I fail.
38
FIND ME IN THE RAIN
Harlow
With fresh laundry in a bag, I step off the elevator, head down the hall, then open the door to my apartment on Sunday morning. Even though he’s on the couch, I teasingly call out, “Are you decent?” But I don’t wait for Bridger to respond. “I know the answer. You’re indecent until I give you these back.”
As I shut the door, I dangle his pants from my arm like I’m waving a red cloth before a bull.
With a casual grin, he looks my way. He’s lounging on the couch, wearing the orange shirt he gave me and his boxer briefs from last night. Those, obviously, weren’t soaked from the rain, so they’re dry enough, but I tossed his dress pants on an air-dry cycle in the laundry in my building this morning. He’s drinking a cup of coffee, steam wafting off the top of the mug. “Yes, Harlow. I’m incredibly indecent.”
I shiver. “And I like it.”
“I noticed,” he says, his grin spreading.
“Trade you? Pants for coffee?” But then I tap my chin, checking out his bare legs, his strong thighs on display. “Except, you are cute pantsless.”
He lifts one eyebrow. “Cute? I’m cute?” he echoes, incredulous.
I bob a shoulder as I flop next to him on the couch, cuddling right up against him. “So cute,” I say, vamping it up.
“Hmm. For that, you might not get coffee.”
“You’d never deprive me of coffee.”
“You’re right. I’m not that cruel.” After he sets down the cup on the coffee table, he tugs me close, presses a kiss to my hair, then inhales me. “Vanilla. You smell like vanilla.”
“Does it make you hungry?”
“You make me hungry.”
“You have quite an appetite,” I say.
“I do,” he says, but then he scoots away and heads into the small kitchen, returning a few seconds later with another steaming mug.
He hands it to me, and after I indulge in a life-affirming swallow of the good stuff, he pulls me against him once again. “Thank you for drying my pants,” he says like that is the height of generosity.
I smile, feeling at home with him on a lazy Sunday morning. Doesn’t matter that this hazy, floaty feeling won’t last for long. Doesn’t matter that we’re living in a bubble inside my apartment. For now, this bubble is the entire world.
I thought I’d lost him yesterday, but he’s still here after a night together, after waking up together, after unhurried, sleepy morning sex for the first time ever.