Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 69858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
I’m never in control, not around this man, not with his head between my legs, licking me over and over with an infuriating variation in speeds, bringing me close and then making me wait.
“I need to come,” I finally gasp. “Please.”
A finger slips inside me as his mouth closes over my clit, circling in perfect, relentless rhythm. He adds a second finger, and I shatter, convulsing over and over with an orgasm that robs me of all thought and reason.
I’m so lost in the aftershocks that I barely register him moving away, or the sound of a condom wrapper.
But then he moves on top of me, gliding into me with a hard, perfect stroke, making me gasp his name. Hearing him groan mine.
If you would have asked me my thoughts on missionary before this weekend, I’d have said meh. But there’s nothing meh about Thomas’s body covering mine, his cock moving inside me, setting the pace.
His elbows are on either side of my head, his fingers in my hair. His silver eyes watching my face as he fucks me fast and hard, then slow and teasing.
He watches me as he slides a hand between our bodies, rubbing in exactly the right spot to make me come again. Only when he thrusts inside me one last time, throwing his head back as he comes with a harsh groan, does he release my gaze.
I close my own eyes in relief, at being relieved of my confused feelings, but then he lowers to me once more, his weight heavy and warm and welcome, and I realize I’m wrong.
There’s no relief from the want. And I’m more confused than ever.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sunday, October 9
“You’re the best. The best, the best, the very bestest . . .” Collette punctuates each “best” with a smacking kiss on my cheek, and I laughingly push her away.
“Easy, you’re practically a married woman. And you’re welcome, but it was nothing. Thomas did most of the hard stuff.”
She releases me, tucking her hair behind her ears. “That’s not what he told Jon.”
I narrow my eyes.
“Oh, don’t give me that trademark cynical Mac look. You’re allowed to be complimented.”
“He’s not my boss anymore,” I grouse. “I don’t need his positive reinforcement.”
She crosses her arms and tilts her head, giving me a speculative, best-friend study. “He really gets to you, doesn’t he?”
“What? No.” But even as I say it, I give a quick glance around the parking lot, where everybody is packing up their cars and hugging out their goodbyes. Thomas is over by Jon, laughing at something his brother said.
He doesn’t laugh very often, but I like when he does.
“Oh my,” Collette murmurs.
“What?” I look back at her.
“Nothing!” She smiles too brightly. “Regardless of whether or not you want to take credit, this weekend was seriously great. Jon and I were just saying this morning how we could not have imagined a better send-off into married life.”
I laugh. “You like it because it practically was married life. There were no strippers, no debauchery . . .”
She gives a happy sigh as she looks towards her soon-to-be-husband. “Two weeks, Mac. I don’t think I’ve ever looked forward to something as much as becoming that man’s wife.”
If you say so.
But since it isn’t the time for, as she puts it, my Mac cynicism, I give her a tight squeeze, and make my way over to Thomas’s car to wait for him.
I’m startled by a quick hug from behind, and turn to see Stephanie Price grinning at me.
“Hey!”
“Okay, I know we already said our goodbyes, and I have your phone number and I will be texting you for a hang soon,” she says, giving a quick glance over her shoulder and lowering her voice. “But really quick . . .”
She looks back at me, and her face turns a little bit serious, but no less kind. “I’m going to offer some unwanted advice, and you can’t say no, because it’s for your own good.”
I look down at my faux-leather pants, which I’ve paired with an oversized burgundy sweater and combat boots. “Am I not pulling off these pants?” I ask. “I know I’m not twenty-two anymore . . .”
“Please, you’re rocking the pants, your ass looks fantastic, and I’m jealous, though actually, that’s as good a segue as any . . .” Stephanie takes a deep breath. “You think he won’t go for a girl that wears pants like that. Or dyes her hair blue. Or that doesn’t want the white picket fence, and hates doing laundry, and who didn’t have a My Future Wedding scrapbook when she was little . . .
“You’re wrong,” she continues a little more gently. “You don’t see the way he looks at you. He’s a man who knows what he wants, and babe, he wants you.”
“Well, of course,” I say with a grin. “You said it yourself. This ass in these pants . . .”