Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 48032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Read Online Books/Novels: | (Wasted Love #1) Wasted Love with You |
|---|---|
Author/Writer of Book/Novel: | Whitney G |
| Language: | English |
| ISBN/ ASIN: | B09R3Z1ZB4 |
| Book Information: | |
The last time my husband gave me an orgasm was … Well, that's never happened. And from the way our marriage is crumbling under the weight of his lies, it never will. Alas, after fighting like hell for a divorce, I promise myself that I'll never waste love on anyone else. I don't even want to 'date' anyone else. But that's until I literally run into a man who leaves me breathless at first sight, a man who etches his way into my memory with nothing more than a single smile and a question. He's an enigma who doesn't want to give me his first name—a man who has more secrets than answers—and from the sexy smirk on his lips, I know that I should stay far away from him. I try to keep my distance, but he pursues me anyway ... When he offers me a job I can't refuse, I throw caution to the wind and take a chance. I should've thought about this a little more. Little do I know, this man is about to take me on a dangerous ride that might cost me everything. Book 1 in the wickedly addictive Wasted Love trilogy. | |
| Books in Series: | Wasted Love Series by Whitney G |
| Books by Author: | Whitney G |
“Don’t get married at eighteen, Autumn. You’ll regret it.”
—My mother, six years ago
Episode 1
Autumn
I don’t love my husband anymore—especially not on these days.
Our flame burned out a long time ago, leaving two severely scorched hearts in its wake. No matter how many times I try to convince myself that a stray ember will soon catch fire, that the old sparks will return someday, the coldness remains.
I married him when I was eighteen years old—when I was young, dumb, and thought I knew everything. I was captivated by defiance, too obsessed with the whole, “But mom, I love him,” and “He’s the only person who understands my deep, dark past,” that I couldn’t see the web I was weaving. (By the way, having strict parents who enforce a midnight curfew hardly equates to having a “deep, dark past.”)
I don’t even think I’m attracted to my husband anymore.
He’s currently on top of me—thrusting in and out of my “sweet kitten”—and the only thing I can think about is whether I turned off our coffeemaker.
I think I hit the switch. Did I hit the switch?
“You like that, baby?” he asks, bringing his lips close to mine. “You like the way this feels?”
“Oh, yeah, Nate.” I moan. “Oh, yeah.”
Wait. Didn’t I say “Oh, yeah” ten seconds ago? Damnit. “Oh, baby.” Say, “Oh, baby,” next.
“Autumnnn.”
“Oh, baby…” I splay my hands across his back, now convinced that I didn’t turn off that coffeemaker.
He speeds up his thrusts, gripping my breasts like he’s attempting to yank them off my body. His kisses are erratic and wet, and I have no idea why he’s using his tongue to lick my chin.
Groaning and snarling, he’s now making some type of feral noise. It sounds like a cross between a wounded bear and a dying tiger.
“Fuck, Autumn,” he pants. “Can you feel me, baby? I’m about to come inside of you.”
“Yessss.” I freeze my eyeballs to their sockets. “I’m almost there. Ahhhh.” And with that, I moan a little louder, suck in big breaths, and shake my legs. Faking yet another orgasm.
I should start keeping count.
He collapses on top of me, his sweaty chest pressed against my breasts, and we lay in silence.
Strained phrases during morning sex are the only conversations we have these days.
Several minutes pass before he whispers, “I love you, Autumn.”
I say it back because I always say it back, because the status of our coffeemaker is bothering the hell out of me, and I need an excuse to get up.
“That was amazing.” I tap his shoulders. “I’ll make some breakfast. You want waffles?”
“Sure.” He lifts his head to kiss me one more time. Then he rolls over, allowing me to roll off the bed.
I wrap myself in a robe and head into the kitchen. As soon as I hit the lights, I look over at the counter.
I didn’t turn it off. I knew it!
I grab a box of waffle mix and a package of bacon. Usually, Nate offers to make breakfast after sex, but I need a moment alone to think today.
I need a fucking break.
Picking up my cell phone, I scroll through my endless list of contacts, wishing I had someone close I could call. Someone who could convince me that these feelings are all in my head or confirm that I’m not alone.
Alas, ever since Nate moved me to this picture-perfect suburbia—with its street names like Whispering Willow, Sweet Sycamore, and My Magnolia—planting new seeds of friendship has been impossible.
I’ve struggled to get close to any of the women here, settling for vapid coffee dates or mindless yoga sessions. Sometimes I feel like they’re all tuned into a never-ending episode of Married Life is Wonderful, and I’m never allowed to complain about where the writers are taking the show.
I toggle between calling my next-door neighbor Julie or Katy—the president of our neighborhood HOA. Since Katy recently complained about our mums being “a little out of season,” I go with the former.
It rings once.
It rings twice.
“Hey there, Autumn!” Julie answers, her voice hoarse. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?”
“Very. Do you have any free time today? I need to talk to you about something.”
“If this is about Linda Watts’ disaster of a PTA meeting, I will bring over two bottles of wine. I can’t believe she tried to make people buy her shampoo products at the end!”
“No, it’s about—”
“Hey! Put that back on the shelf, Mister. Now.” She sucks in a deep breath. “Right now, Daniel. Stop embarrassing me in this store.”
“Should I call back at a different time?”
“God no,” she says. “You’re the first adult I’ve spoken to today. Hold on one second while I put Daniel back into this cart.”
I lean against the counter as Nate walks into the kitchen. He’s dressed in one of his custom black suits, looking as if his morning orgasm never happened.