Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
It isn’t supposed to be like this the first time. We’re supposed to be fumbling along, learning what the other likes by trial and error. He’s not supposed to be fucking up into me at the perfect angle, each thrust hitting that pleasure spot so few ever find. We’ve barely started and already I’m at the edge, my body pulsing.
The worst thing is, it’s not solely how he moves; it’s his scent—crisp apples, heady pheromone. It’s the rough, greedy sounds he makes. It’s his body—wide, sturdy shoulders, narrow hips, abs bunching—as he clutches the folds of my skirt with white-knuckled fists. Everything works for me; a perfect storm.
We’ve been moving as one but not letting our eyes meet. I’m afraid of what he might see if I do. Of what I might see. Triumph? Happiness? Lust? Or maybe nothing. I’d been a coward refusing to take my clothes off, insisting on taking control when I want to relinquish it. The truth should cool the moment, but it doesn’t. Whatever has happened between us over the years doesn’t erase the fact that this man turns my body on like no other.
He hits that spot again and pleasure punches through me so acute, so good, I whimper, my fingers digging into the rock-hard caps of his shoulders.
Rye lifts his head, and his gaze sears me. His hips work faster, harder, our skin slapping together in a quick rhythm. It’s too much. My head is spinning, my body liquid heat. I’m too hot. I hate that clothes are still on my body, keeping my skin from his. But I’m unwilling to let go. Not yet. I work myself on him, grinding my hips against his.
Rye’s lips part. “Fuck. Oh, fuck.”
He’s close. I can feel it in the urgency of his thrusts, in the way his breathing turns into light pants. He’s refraining from touching me. Because I told him I wanted to use his body without interference. Because I put that distance between us. But he’s looking at me with a plea in his eyes. He doesn’t want distance. He’s pulled taut as an over-tuned string.
My breath leaves in a rush. “Rye. Please.”
Permission.
His nostrils flare. His big, rough hand slides up my sweat-slicked thigh, his thumb finding my soaking clit, and then strums it. He plays my pussy with the effortless authority of the world-class bass player that he is. And all that twisted, hot need, all the pressure building up within me fractures.
My orgasm has edges, cutting in its pleasure. With a cry, I slump against him. “Rye.” My body jolts as another surge hits me. “Take over. Please.”
With a strangled groan, he flips me onto my back. Thickly muscled arms bracket my shoulders as he kisses me with something like desperation. Or maybe it’s me. I’m the one clinging to him, opening my mouth wider to taste more of him. Our kiss turns messy, and his lips slide to my neck, his breath coming in hot bursts. But then he lifts his head and looks down at my top.
“Off,” he rasps. “I need this off.”
“Yes.” I lift my arms, arch my back. I’m burning up. “Please. Please.”
He strips my top off with brisk efficiency but then pauses to stare. “Oh, hell,” he says thickly. “You’re beautiful. So much more than I ever…Shit, Bren.”
I like my breasts. I don’t need anyone to build me up. But the way he looks at me, his throat working as he swallows, like he needs a moment to soak me in, has my breath hitching. His big hand shakes as it glides up my side to engulf me in its rough-hewn warmth. Lightly, he trails the backs of his fingers over my nipples, playing with both of them as if he can’t help himself. A tender smile lifts his lips.
“Sweet little cupcakes,” he whispers, then ducks down to draw one swollen, tight nipple into his mouth. I groan at the sensation, arching up, and he sucks me deeper, tongue flickering as his other hand trails down my hip, getting caught up in the fabric of my skirt before finding the length of my thigh.
With strong, clever fingers, he massages me, running his hand down my leg to my calf.
“These legs,” he growls against my skin. “These gorgeous legs. Dreamed about these legs…”
His voice trails off on a groan before he hooks my knee over his shoulder. Spread wide for him. Rye gives my nipple one more sweet tug, then he starts to move again. Hard, forceful thrusts. Owning me.
Every weighty impact sets off sparks of heat and pleasure. Frantic, I circle my hips, lift up to meet his thrusts, my hands grabbing at his slippery shoulders, desperate for purchase. I need more. Harder. Deeper. More.
I’m not aware I’m saying it until he groans “fuck, yes” against my lips. He’s driving me into the bed, his hips snapping with relentless precision. And it’s so good. Too much. We’re no longer Brenna and Rye. There is only this pleasure, so big and full, I have to push into it until it takes me.