Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 68831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
“Where are we going?” she asked.
He glanced over at her. “I thought I’d leave that up to you. Do you want to go back to your house?”
He dreaded the thought. It had been pure bedlam in that house. Noise until three in the morning, then someone up and banging around at seven. The door seemed to never stop, visitors dropping by unannounced, security an absolute nightmare. Before staying there, he had wanted her to have her own place. After staying there, it was no longer up for discussion. She needed a secure home, one where he could properly protect her. If she wanted her independence, if she wanted to bring all of those crazy women and hecticness with her, and live separately from him—fine. But it needed to be behind a gate, with cameras and alarms and a shower that didn’t run cold and could accommodate a grown man without molesting him with the curtain.
She shook her head and he breathed a sigh of relief. “I need a full night’s sleep. In a bed big enough to hold both of us.” She grinned at him and he reached over, cupping her knee, unable to resist the urge to touch her.
Yes, he needed her in bed. Loud. Moaning. Bent over. Thrusting back. Naked. Panting. Coming apart. His mouth against her slick mound. His tongue dipping inside, running along her slit, lightly feasting on her clit. Her thighs trembling. Mouth opening. Body clenching. He’d move up her body, then. Settle between her legs, her muscles still twitching, pulsing. Hot and wet. He’d push inside, feel her tighten, her nails clawing along his chest, her eyes opening, body reawakening. He’d never had a woman so responsive, so engaged. When she was touched, she bloomed. When he fucked her, she was a rabid animal. When he made love to her, she melted.
His hand tightened, sliding up her thigh, his fingers passing over the smooth skin, itching to be past the frustrating fabric of her shorts and inside her heat. She exhaled, a whimper of invitation in the tone. He could make her come right now. Softly strum her clit through her panties. Lean back that seat. Open up those legs. She could brace her feet on the dash. Arch into his hand. He could slip in a finger, crook it against her g-spot, and she’d come undone.
He saw an exit and didn’t hesitate, the Bentley taking the change with ease, the off-ramp slightly bumpy as they pulled off the highway and onto a side road, coasting down the dark lane, under tree cover, and pulling off to the side.
She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t hesitate. She popped the button on her shorts, pulled them down the length of her legs, and reclined back, opening her thighs to him, her yellow panties almost glowing in the dark. He cut off the lights and reached for her, his need only eclipsed by his awe.
God, she was perfect, in absolutely every way.
BELL
I lay on his chest, the expensive sheets cool along my back, his heartbeat thudding against my ear. My body twitched, an after-effect of the orgasm, and I closed my eyes, enjoying the sensation. Doubts wormed their way along my subconscious, interrupting my slumber, and I attempted to push them away. I didn’t deserve this. Him. This expensive suite, the butler service, the view. It all felt too perfect, too different, like I was Cinderella and—any moment—the clock would hit midnight.
His hand ran along my back. “Don’t give up on me, on us.”
It was annoying, how the man seemed to read my mind. Not that I was giving up on him, or on us. But my thoughts were colliding, my doubts rising and bringing my anxiety along with it.
I rolled over and stared up at the ceiling. “I feel as if everything’s about to fall apart again.”
“It’s not. Besides, we’re through the worst of it. Hawk is gone. He can’t touch us anymore.”
I turned to him, repositioning so that I was on my side, face to face with him. I reached out, my fingers gently tracing over his features. “Are we through the worst of it? You make it sound like it’s over. Like people aren’t dead.”
Dead. It sounded like a curse word, and I wanted to take it back the moment it left my lips. I saw the impact when it hit Dario, the flinch of his features, the tightness of that mouth, the darkness of his eyes.
“Let me carry that guilt. It wasn’t you. It was me.”
“No.”
I struggled to prop myself up on one elbow, to gain some sort of stance. I’d heard the tone of those words before, recognized the pain in his features, the anguish in his eyes. My mother felt that guilt because I’d needed to work and help them cover the bills. Working at the barn had led to my rape. My mother carried that guilt because she’d been at the diner, and not able to pick me up, not able to be there when John had driven by and seen the barn light on. My father had felt that guilt when he’d been too drunk to be taken seriously, when his reputation with the Mohave police department overshadowed his teenage daughter’s statement. I had felt that guilt, for not saying no clearly enough. For being there. For not running. For every time I’d let Johnny’s eyes slide over me without glaring back.