Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71202 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 356(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71202 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 356(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
I resist the urge to press my fingers to his throat to check his pulse as we stare into each other's eyes. I don't ground or roll my hips. I don't seek pressure from an erection I'm not even sure he has. I'm still as a statue because I don't know exactly what he needs, but I'm determined not to give him whatever the opposite of that may be.
“Just give me five minutes,” he pleads, his hips shifting enough to answer that ridiculous question in my head as to whether he's aroused with me sitting on his lap.
I do my best to ignore that part of him pressing against me. He continues to watch my mouth. Knowing his eyes are there makes me want to lick my lips. I resist as best I can, not wanting him to misinterpret this situation the way I did yesterday.
“Just five minutes,” he whispers again, leaning even closer.
Realization of his plan comes to me slowly as he presses even closer. The kiss starts out sweetly—a soft brush of lips. A breathy groan escapes my mouth when he adds in a little tongue. I know this is wrong. I know this complicates things more than anything else possibly could. I know I shouldn't allow it but I'm also incapable of stopping it.
It’s difficult, damn near impossible, to turn down something I've wanted for so long despite how detrimental it could be for the both of us. I haven't faced many irresistible things in my life, so I'm not exactly experienced with walking away.
Knowing that's what would be best for me, I feel the clench of his hands on my hips but it's nothing like yesterday. Yesterday, there was terror in his touch, the grip of his fingers fearful. They're filled with need now, desire, arousal, I realize.
As he rolls his hips under me, his tongue swirls over mine, the heat of his mouth, the warmth of his body against my own, the greatest aphrodisiac. His hands creep under the hem of my shirt, his fingers brushing over the skin on my back. There's no urgency in his movement. He isn't pinching me or pulling on my flesh. He isn't holding me down, trying to increase the pressure on his erection. God, I wish he was.
I tried to shut off that part of my brain that tells me, much like the close proximity kiss we shared in the airplane when we arrived in Albuquerque, this is another trauma response. It's a way for him to take his mind off of the panic attack he was having. It shouldn't feel like a strike to my ego, that realization, but I'm having a hard time controlling my own emotions.
There's a good chance that he'll regret this. That he'll convince himself that it was another line that I crossed, not one that he ignored, and maybe he'd be right. I'm the psychologist and he's the one I've been assigned to, to make sure that he's safe and recovering mentally as his body recovers physically. We're not teammates in this moment. We haven't been teammates since the second Spade and I dragged him to safety after he was shot.
I'm his doctor, his therapist, and he's my patient. There are ethical ramifications to what we're doing, but my body doesn't want to listen to my head. It's feeding off of the desire I feel for this man, the desire I have felt for this man for a very long time. I struggle with doing the right thing. I'm torn between climbing off his lap and telling him it can never happen again, and helping him pull my shirt over my head even though he's made no effort to do that.
I ache for his hands all over my body, at the same time knowing that I can never cross that line. I pull my face back from his, allowing a few inches of distance between our mouths, but he doesn't stop. Instead of opening his eyes and looking up at me, telling me we're making a mistake, he nips at my chin, one hand coming out from under my shirt to tilt my head to the side. I don't think I've ever felt anything as amazing as his mouth on my neck.
I whimper when he rolls his hips again, his straining erection insistent against the thin fabric of my sleep shorts. I want nothing more than to rip them off, shove his lounge pants down and slide down every inch of him. I whine again, the sound needy and embarrassing.
His mouth continues its warm travel over my skin, lower and lower and lower until he's licking at the swell of my breasts above the neckline of my tank top. As his hand reaches up to cup my right breast, his phone rings. I jerk at the intrusive sound but his eyes are slow to open, and when they do, it's as if he’s seeing me for the first time.