Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“I’m dying here, Milo. I want to touch you so badly, but you’re sitting there like it hasn’t been months since you touched me. Is it Jolene? Are you screwing her now? Some other random woman? Rae?”
He narrows his eyes a fraction before slowly inching his head side to side as if he does not fully understand me.
“Fuck it. Fuck you. Fuck everyone. I’m done here.” I pound my boots toward the blacktop, my heart crumbling into unfixable pieces.
“Touch me …” Milo’s voice is barely audible, laced with anguish.
I turn.
He stands a good ten feet from me, hands limp at his sides. Shoulders slumped. “If you want to touch me … then touch me.”
Oh, Milo …
He breaks my heart, more pieces crumbling to the pit of my stomach—over six feet of thick bones, solid muscle, and tortured soul.
I force my feet to make their way back to him.
His drunken gaze slides along my body while his lips part, tongue darting to wet them. When Milo looks at me, really looks at me, it feels like he’s silently screaming, “Help me!”
But I don’t know how to help him. I can’t change his past any more than I can change my own. In ten weeks, he’s going to marry Jolene. And as much as I want to hate him for allowing it to happen, I can’t.
It’s in his eyes.
I don’t know if he could stop it, short of taking a gun and killing himself.
“Milo …” I whisper, unbuttoning his shirt. The fire behind us crackles. “Do you love me?”
“Yes,” he rasps, drunk eyes hiding behind heavy blinks.
I unbuckle his belt while pressing my lips to his bare chest. “When you say ‘I do’ to her, will you still love me?”
“Yes.”
My hands shake while removing his belt and unbuttoning his jeans. I’m scared of how bad life will hurt when he’s wearing the wedding band she slips on his finger. When she decides it’s time they start a family.
The gravel digs into the knees of my jeans while I lower before him, taking him into my mouth.
I close my eyes and claim every part of him before Jolene. And one day … I will tell her I had him first. One day, I will plant my foot in her face and make her feel like an inadequate wife, like a failure as a woman, like a second choice. She might feel entitled to a marriage certificate with his name, but he will always be my Milo.
“Fuck, Indie …”
I open my eyes while Milo’s head tips back, and a low groan escapes from his open mouth. He’s warm against my lips, controlled while moving ever so slightly, yet I feel it fleeting. The ache inside. The undeniable need.
His fingers sliding into my hair.
His abs tightening when my nails dig into them.
“Come here, baby,” he rasps, grabbing himself, and teasing my lips.
I flick my tongue along the head; his hips jerk once, a sharp hiss sliding through his clenched teeth. “I-Indie … I can’t control it any longer.”
My lips forge a trail up to his chest, neck, and lips. “I don’t want you to control it,” I whisper.
Milo grabs my face with a firm grip, kissing me hard. We stumble our way back to the barn. I reach for the door handle, but my hand slips when he grabs my thighs, lifting me, and pinning me to the cold metal.
He jerks the skirt of my dress out of his way along with the crotch of my panties.
All control is lost while he moves inside me.
Never … not ever, have I felt this wanted. This needed. He’s not just inside me; he’s flowing through my veins and filling my lungs.
“Inside,” Milo says between labored breaths, sliding out of me while easing me back to my feet.
He opens the door, backing me inside.
Hands on my face again, kissing me—branding me.
I push his unbuttoned shirt over his shoulders, and he releases me long enough to send it to the floor. Eager hands tear off my clothes, hungry lips devour my skin, as desperate and tortured as the look in his eyes.
A voice in my head whispers, “If this is love …”
It’s. So. Unfair.
Milo Odell was made for me. And I was made for him.
Then the devil inside Fletcher came to life after Ruthie died, and he won’t be satisfied until the world submits to his form of hell.
My back hits the mattress, and he spreads my legs, consuming me with hungry strokes of his tongue. Then he flips me onto my stomach and kisses the back of my legs and ass. My fingers curl into the sheets when he nudges my legs apart and plunges into me with a hard grunt. “Mine,” he says, gripping my hips.
“Yours …” I echo, out of breath, while my hands stretch above my head to grip the top edge of the mattress.