Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
So this is my chance.
Tonight, with this man.
Nate is exquisitely handsome with his jaw clean-shaven, his hair styled as if he really took the time to make himself presentable tonight. It’s so laughable. If he only knew how sexy he is merely rolling out of bed. Looking at him makes my stomach squeeze with longing. I’m shaking from it.
Our eyes meet, and I swear the air almost crackles. I’ve never seen into someone the way I see into him now. It’s like he’s holding a hand out for me and tugging me beneath the surface. Emotion clogs my throat.
I watch him swallow, the muscles working in his neck. Every part of him seems tensed, like he’s holding himself back from pouncing. Is this hard for him? To look but not touch?
He’s waiting for me to say something and I can’t muster anything eloquent, but I can tell him what I want, the beginning, at least.
“Your shirt,” I say, pointing at it.
The request surprises him, like he’d forgotten he was even dressed. But then his hands reach up to the top button, and he holds my gaze as he works on each one, undoing them until it’s easy for him to pull his shirt off his shoulders and drop it back onto the couch.
He’s so beautiful it’s almost hard to look at him. He’s also incredibly intimidating. Strong. Veins work up his forearms, biceps, and thick shoulders. He somehow seems bigger without clothes on. Nothing diminishing him, I suppose. There’re freckles clustered on the tops of his shoulders where the sun catches him in the summer. There’s a little jagged scar on the left side of his chest.
I want to walk over to him and trace every last detail. I want to fit myself into every groove, press myself against him until it’s hard to catch a full breath.
I didn’t anticipate this. This feeling is too overwhelming, and I have to blink and look away, stare at the fire for a moment before I gather the courage to glance at him again. He’s so patient, standing there, letting me look at him. Then I realize, I’m doing the same for him. He’s just as affected by me. We’re in this together.
I’ve never thought much about what a one-night stand should feel like, but I doubt it’s this. I imagine in most cases it’s a frenzied make-out followed by awkward sex and a quick goodbye—the feeling of sharing yourself with a perfect stranger.
Nate is so familiar to me. I could make a home in his blue eyes. They watch me with such sincerity and conviction. God, I can tell he’s a man who loves hard.
This is no joke to him, no simple night. He understands the gravity of what we’re about to do and he’s making space for me to accept it or flee.
Flee.
The idea is ludicrous now. Tonight, I’d crawl on broken glass to get to him. I’d beg and plead. I squeeze my eyes closed against the onslaught of feelings, and when I open them again, I don’t meet his gaze. I step forward slowly, and he stays right where he is. I reach him and circle my arms around his neck, pressing myself up onto my tiptoes. His arms answer by wrapping around my waist, tightly holding me to him. My face rests against his chest, and I breathe him in deeply.
His fingers weave through my hair. His mouth falls against my temple, my cheek. His nose nudges my face until I turn enough to let him capture my mouth. The kiss is slow and languid. I feel it spread through my body like a drug, tingles fanning out in every direction. It’s in my bones.
Holy shit.
His arms tighten around me and his tongue sweeps into my mouth and I’m so hungry for him. Impatience grows with every second his body presses against mine. I moan into his mouth, trying to plead with him to push this on, to drag me down to the ground now.
But he doesn’t. Instead, while we kiss, he repositions us seamlessly so that my back flattens against his chest, my face arches up toward his.
Usually, Nate doesn’t throw his height around. He’s not one of those guys who puffs their chest out and spreads their legs, claiming space like it’s their right to have it. But now, his size overwhelms me. He looms behind me, strong and unyielding. I press my weight back against him and he doesn’t budge, doesn’t even falter.
He palms my breasts, kneading them possessively before he lets one hand skim lower. His fingers ignite my skin, down the center of my chest, my stomach, my navel, then he reaches the point of no return—just above my panties—that makes everything inside me suddenly squeeze with anticipation. I grip his wrist, not to pull him away but to push his hand lower, to force it past the top of the silk, down between my legs. I’ll die if he doesn’t touch me, and then he is and god—