Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
He aligns us and starts to press his length inside me.
It’s more than I was expecting and my body tenses up on its own. He freezes and leans back to try to look at me. I don’t let him. I tighten my arms around his neck and kiss him again, relaxing my body, spreading my thighs more, giving in to the feel of him.
He sinks in more and more, slowly, wonderfully, all the way to the hilt, and a deep moan rumbles out of him like he’s just found nirvana.
He stays perfectly still inside me for a moment. I think he’s giving me time to adjust to him, and then finally, he starts to slowly roll his hips, pulling out a bit and then pressing back into me. He does it again, and again, each time building on the momentum more and more, until he’s thrusting into me harder and faster. His hand reaches down to grip my thigh and he moves my leg. He pins it down beside my stomach and looks down. It’s like he’s splitting apart at the seams—wholly overtaken by the sight of us coming together.
I’m too primed from him touching me earlier to last long. I come once, all too quickly, tightening, squeezing around him. He curses and pumps harder inside me, dragging his fingers across my overly sensitive skin as if once wasn’t good enough.
Once was a warm-up.
He wants to coax another orgasm from me, and his thumb is working magic between my thighs, swirling and rubbing in spots that make me jerk with an onslaught of tingles. Then, as if driving his point home, his mouth lowers to one of my breasts so he can tease me with his tongue.
And that’s it: the most delicious feeling on earth.
I have no defense, no way to keep him at bay. A silent cry escapes as my body tenses and then breaks. I come again with my eyes closed tight and my nails biting into his biceps. I jerk with pleasure and Walt is right there, buried inside me, pumping hard and losing himself. We’re wrapped around one another, as if clinging on for dear life. His hot breath is on my neck, his mouth barely touching my skin. The blissful aftershocks linger as we catch our breaths, trying to piece ourselves together enough to let go of one another.
He moves first, pushing up and off me, his gaze immediately seeking mine. He looks concerned for me, but he shouldn’t. That was…wonderful.
I smile, and he responds with a lazy grin of his own.
“Okay,” I say, with a friendly pat to his chest. “Now I’m tired. Good job.”
Twenty-Four
I’m smiling down into my coffee cup. Grinning like a fool, in fact.
“Do you want some of these eggs?” Walt asks, drawing my attention to where he’s perched by the stove. He’s dressed in boxer briefs and nothing else. His hip rests against the counter. His abs are *chef’s kiss*. This is exactly what he ought to wear on a daily basis. No pesky shirts for this guy. Let’s burn all his ties right here, right now.
“Elizabeth?”
I stop looking at his abs and shake my head.
“No, thank you.”
“Toast?”
I fight back a laugh. “You already made me cereal.”
“And you’ve hardly touched it.”
“I ate the first bowl you made me and then you added more.”
“Right, well, if you’re hungry, let me know.”
He turns back to the stove to tend to his eggs, and I return to biting back my smile.
A moment later, he cuts the gas to the burner, loads up his plate, and comes to sit beside me. We’re side by side on the counter stools. I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he scoops up some eggs onto his toast and takes a bite. He notices me watching him, and I smile instead of looking away.
“What?”
“I want a bite now.”
He holds his toast out for me and I nibble off the corner.
Last night, he and I both slept in my bed. I woke up approximately one thousand times, checking to see if he was still there. Once, I woke to find him sprawled on his stomach, half on top of me. Then again, hours later, I found myself tucked against his chest. At one point I was drooling on his arm.
Once the sun crept over the horizon, I thought he’d insist on waking up and seizing the day, but we stayed in bed way later than either of us usually do, stretching and recoiling when an appendage would accidentally slip out from beneath the blankets.
“It’s too cold,” I complained at one point.
He groaned in agreement, burying us deeper under the blankets.
Eventually, when his stomach was audibly growling, he left first, only to return quickly with one of his old college sweatshirts.
“Does this mean we’re going steady?” I quipped, only to immediately hate myself for joking about something like that. What if he thinks I’m pressuring him for more after last night? What if he thinks this is my way of initiating “the talk”?