Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 96077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Should we continue?
My hand glides down my stomach. My skin is flushed and warm and smooth. All the while, he stares, enraptured, until I reach between my parted thighs and take him in my hand. Silky hardness, veined and thick. I’m the one doing the touching now. His fingers leave me empty as I brush him back and forth across me, teasing, working us up, making us shiver. He stares down with hooded eyes, nearly lost to the sight of my legs spread before him. It’s only when his fingers dig into my thigh, when a deep impatient rumble breaks free of him that I start to guide him into me the smallest bit. My eyes roll back as he starts to stretch me. He goes slow, but not because he’s unsteady or nervous. No. I’m being filled by a man who knows what a woman needs, whose bold confidence never wavers.
Ethan takes it from there, capturing my knees in his hands and pushing himself inside me inch by inch until we fit together like a lock and key. Deep and full. It’s utterly unnerving, this all-consuming feeling of contentment. There’s a rightness to the moment. This is an inevitable outcome we’ve been hurtling toward for months on end. He and I are as close as two people could ever be and I’m trying to desperately quell an overwhelming urge to cry as he stays buried inside me, unmoving. I force down the feelings, aware of how silly I’d look. Even so, tears still burn the edges of my eyes as my throat tightens, and Ethan sees. He sees me and, mortified, I turn away, focusing on the edge of the dark forest.
His fingers brush against my cheek and then he cups it in his hand, using it to guide my attention back to him. That’s when I realize these feelings surging through me are surging through him too. He’s as consumed by it as I am. He might not have tears rolling down his cheeks, but his eyes are the darkest shade of brown, a compelling mix of longing and adoration. It’s like even now, he’s not fully satisfied, as if being buried this deep isn’t even enough. This one time won’t sate him.
I pick his hand up off my cheek and kiss the center of his palm before guiding it down to my breast. It’s my signal to him that I want this to continue, my signal that we’re in this together.
His draws himself out of me slowly and pumps back in. A shudder racks through me. One hand moves down to grip my waist as he slides out and back in, filling me up until it’s a hair’s breadth away from being painful. My hands grip his biceps, holding on to him as if he’s all that’s keeping me rooted to the earth. Slow pumps give way to hard thrusts. Soon, we have a rhythm. Soon, there are no tears, only hips rocking together, backs arching, hands dragging down chests. My nails bite into his skin and he drops down to kiss me, sweeping his tongue across mine as his finger swirls circles between my parted thighs. My second orgasm chases the first and this time I come with him lying on top of me, pumping and thrusting and making love until he can’t stand it for another second and he pulls out, fists his length, and comes with such force across my stomach and chest that I’m completely captivated.
He kisses my mouth and cheek and hair while we catch our breath, but we’re only there for a moment before he scoops me up off the ground and carries me into the dark lake behind us.
The cold water soothes my overly heated skin and he keeps me against him, carried like a child in his arms. My arms wrap around his neck and I bury my head in the groove just below his chin. His palm drags down my chest, rinsing me off, and I feel like I’m dreaming, barely able to keep my eyes open after a long day and longer night. None of this feels quite real, which is probably why I feel compelled to pour out my soul, letting him hear the truth I’ve been so careful to hide.
“I once pushed my classmate Becky off the swings in the third grade because she told me my French braids looked stupid,” I say, my lips pressing against his skin with every syllable.
He stills, obviously confused by my abrupt revelation.
“I drank before I was twenty-one,” I continue, quickening my pace in the hopes he’ll let me finish. “I cheated on a geography test and never got caught. I used to wish I’d been born into a different family—a wealthy family—so I’d never have to live in a trailer park ever again.