Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 84377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
When the song ends, she presses a hand against her breastbone, her sleepy eyes blinking up at me. “Wow. You’re really good. Will you do another one?”
I rest a hand on her bare thigh. “You should get some sleep.”
“Nope. I’m good.” She slips deeper into the couch, the last ounces of strength draining from her body.
“This one will wake her up.” Conor flashes an impish grin and strums the chords of Whips and Things by David Allan Coe.
All three of us belt the lyrics, because it’s one of those songs that should be bellowed as loudly and obnoxiously as possible.
The raunchy words send Maybe into a fit of laughter, and by the time we finish, we’re all laughing, just like we did when Lorne introduced it to us in our teens.
“I’m going to play that song at our wedding.” Jake grins.
“You do that.” Conor tweaks his nipple through his shirt. “Because when I play it at your funeral, I’m bringing a date.”
He grips her wrist and yanks her close. “Put the guitar away. I have something else for you to play with.”
With a defiant look, she twists her arm free and strums the chords of another song.
I scratch the stubble on my jaw. “You’re losing your touch, Jake.”
“We’ll see about that when she comes to bed begging for a punishment.”
“So it runs in the family,” Maybe mumbles beside me. “Whips and things…”
“Whips are overrated.” I give her a wink and raise the harmonica to my mouth.
We play a few more songs before her head rolls on her shoulders, and her mouth parts in a quiet snore.
“We lost her.” Conor sets the guitar aside and crawls onto Jake’s lap.
“I’ll be right back.” I lift Maybe’s slack body and carry her into the house.
She stirs during the walk but doesn’t fully wake. Eyes closed, she curls against my chest and saturates my inhales with the minty scent of her shampoo.
As shadows dance along the soft curves of her hips and legs, I’m not above checking her out. The perfect shape of her heats my blood and awakens a primitive urge to keep her close just to prevent other men from touching her.
I wish I wasn’t attracted to her. This would be less complicated if she were more of an adversary and less of a fascination. But she seduces me without even trying. The silky feel of her skin, the sweet taste of her mouth, the fight she gives me at every turn—she’s a mysterious dream wrapped in the promise of sex. No single man could’ve turned her away.
I didn’t just demand that she stay. I gave her a well-bred, papered-up British White Park calf, for fuck’s sake. What was I thinking?
I wasn’t. This goes beyond fascination and headlong into insanity.
The door to my suite emerges at the end of the hall, and I consider it for a span of several seconds before forcing my feet into Lorne’s room. As I lower her onto the bed, she rouses.
“I fell asleep.” She peers up at me with heavy-lidded eyes and touches my face. “God, you’re handsome. I bet you hear that all the time.”
I usually find those words trite and unctuous, but on her lips, they sound genuine.
“I almost carried you to my bed.” I turn my head and kiss her fingertips. “But I want you there on your own accord.”
“I won’t—”
“You will.” I crawl over her and lower my body between her legs. “I’ll wait.”
“Is this waiting?” Her hands fall to my hips and clench.
“You have no idea.”
The impulse to grind against her is overwhelming, but if she says stop, this ends. I would lose her, and I can’t risk that.
Instead, I wait for her to push me away.
She doesn’t.
An inner battle tightens her expression, her body stiff and resistant beneath me. Then her gaze lowers and parks on my mouth. That’s all the invitation I need.
I swoop in and draw her bottom lip between my teeth. She gasps, and I bite, forbidding her from jerking back.
A startled noise sounds in her throat. Then a heartbeat of hesitation. And another.
She lifts a hand to my hair. The other slides along my jaw. Her mouth closes over my upper lip, and she presses closer, leaning up, breaths accelerating, fingers curling and pulling at my roots.
She wants this. Christ, I feel the need vibrating through her. But I hold still, forcing her to come to me.
Give in, baby.
With a groan, she suckles my upper lip, softly at first, then harder, hungrier. Her jaw unlocks. Her tongue darts out, and she liquefies beneath me in irresistible submission.
I dive in, taking over the kiss and claiming her with urgent strokes. My cock wakes up, and my breaths escape in bursts. I grip her thigh around my hip and dig closer, rubbing my zipper against her core and seeking relief. Fucking hell, I want her so badly this is torture.