Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 173733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 869(@200wpm)___ 695(@250wpm)___ 579(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 869(@200wpm)___ 695(@250wpm)___ 579(@300wpm)
The moment my feet are back on the ground, I am aware of my naked body being the only naked body in this room. Seeking to remedy that fact, and maintain some semblance of control, I twist around to face him. In the process, his arm has managed to remain around my waist, my hands have settled on his chest, and our eyes have collided. I forget control. I forget everything but these few seconds in which this warm blanket of intimacy wraps around us and steals my breath.
And then in the next moments, in which his eyes lower to my naked breasts, where they linger for countless seconds, my aching nipples pucker beneath his inspection before his gaze returns to mine. “You’re as perfect as I knew you would be,” he says, his voice managing to be both sandpaper and silk on my nerve endings, as he adds, “and almost as naked as I want you to be.”
The idea that he has wanted me as much as I have wanted him does funny things to my stomach, but more so, delivers an unexpected wave of illogical vulnerability. This is sex. The end. I don’t want or need to feel anything more. I want and need him naked and fucking me now, fast, hard. That’s safe. Desperate to find that safe place, to shift the control from him to me, I push to my toes, my breasts molding to his chest, and press my lips to his lips. They are warm, and he is hard everywhere I am soft.
And his response to my kiss, the answering moan I am rewarded with, is white-hot fire in my blood that he ignites further with a deep, sizzling stroke of his tongue. He slants his mouth over mine, deepening the connection, kissing me with a fierceness no other man ever has, but then some part of me has known from moment one that he is like no man I have ever known. Which explains why he is everything I want. And nothing about this night is what I expected, any more than this man is anything I can control.
But there is something intensely arousing about the idea of trying.
As if claiming I am reaching for the impossible, he molds me closer, his hand between my shoulder blades, his tongue playing wickedly with mine, but I meet him stroke for stroke, arching into him. He cups my ass and pulls me solidly against his erection. He wins this one. Now I am the one moaning, arching into him, and I welcome the intimate connection. I burn for the moment he will be inside me.
But I also want him to burn for this just as much as I do, and I need to touch this man. Really, really, need to touch him. My hand presses between us, and I stroke the hard line of his shaft. Reese tears his mouth from mine, pressing me hard against the pillar supporting the window again, and when his hands leave my body, when his palms press to the concrete above me again, I sense his withdrawal is about control. I was winning. I confirm that as reality when our eyes lock, and the dash of fire in his eyes is lit by one part passion and one part challenge.
“If I slide my fingers between your legs right now,” he says, “would you be wet for me? Are you ready for me?”
“Why don’t you find out for yourself?” I dare him, testing him, pushing him, and I don’t even know why.
“If I lick your clit, will you moan for me?”
“Is that a trick question?”
“Answer, Cat,” he orders, his voice low, gruff. Aroused. And God, I love the way he manages to be power and control, and yet, intentionally or unintentionally, he doesn’t deny me the understanding that I do this to him. It empowers and emboldens me. So when he pushes, when he says, “If I lick your clit—”
“Please,” I say. “Is that where this is going? Can we get it over with and just have you get to it?”
His lips curve, with just a hint of wickedness to them that tells me he plans to make me say that word about ten more times before this night is over. And I’m okay with that, I realize. Because that is the glory of one night. I can enjoy every moment of challenge with this man, but I don’t have to be in control until tomorrow. And he doesn’t get to be in control tomorrow.
Chapter eleven
Cat
As if he’s heard my mental push and pull over control, Reese stakes his claim on those rights. His fingers close around my panties and he rips them away, leaving me in only my thigh-highs and high heels. I gasp with the unexpected action, and then inhale with the anticipation of what comes next. Only it doesn’t happen. He doesn’t touch me. His hand returns to the pillar above my head, and he stares down at me with half-veiled eyes. Waiting on my reaction. Maybe he wants me to say, Please touch me. Maybe he wants to frustrate me into finally hitting him. I aspire to give him the calm that is unexpected.