Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 39300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 157(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 157(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
Her heart was mine before she ever stepped foot in my office.
I feel her quivering around me, and I know she's close. Determined to send her flying, I reach between us, rubbing tight circles on her swollen clit, fucking her hard and deep.
My lips trail across her body, kissing every perfect spot.
Her moans grow louder, her body trembling beneath mine as I stroke and rub and thrust, trying to drive her out of her mind. I feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter inside her, the pleasure building.
"That's it, baby," I growl against the shell of her ear. "Let go. I've got you." I pinch her clit as I strike deep, grinding against her in just the right way.
She shatters with a keening cry, her head thrown back, her pussy clamping down on my cock like a vise. The sight of her coming undone, the feel of her clenching around me so tightly, sends me hurtling over the edge with her.
I let go with a groan, thrusting into her one last time as I empty myself inside her. Pleasure rockets through me, so intense it borders on pain.
I bury my face in her throat, breathing her in as the past and the future blur, choking me. And I almost say it—almost tell her that I'm so goddamn in love with her that I can't think straight, can't see anything but her.
But the words lodge in my throat, stuck. Because I'm so goddamn afraid if I say them, I'll lose her the same way I lost my parents.
I'll be alone, destroyed, and this time, I won't survive it.
So I tap the words against her inner thigh with a fingertip instead—like fucking Morse code, writing my love on her perfect body.
Mine, I think desperately, holding her tightly as she goes boneless beneath me with a little sigh. You're mine, Tempest. Don't leave me. Don't ever fucking leave me.
"I love you," she mumbles, nuzzling her face into the crook of my neck as she drifts off to sleep, still wrapped in my arms.
And hearing those three little words whispered from her lips, makes me feel like I defied fate and the Gods, and won.
Chapter Eight
Dalton
First thing the next morning, I pull through the wrought-iron gates of my grandfather's estate, my heart pounding. I'm not fucking ready to face him again, but I can't hide from the old man forever. We need to resolve our shit, one way or another, and Tempest belongs here, not in a hotel.
She squirms in her seat beside me, her nervousness palpable. "Are you sure about this, Dalton?" she asks. "We don't have to do this yet."
"I'm positive," I say, my voice firm. "You're my wife. You belong here with me, not in a hotel." Though truthfully, I don't intend for us to be here long. As soon as shit is sorted with the old man, we're flying to California to deal with her family.
I have no fucking clue how we're going to run companies that are half a continent away from each other but figuring that out is high on my list of things to do. I won't be sleeping without her. If we have to split time between Grady Records and Evernight, then that's what we'll do. I'll work from anywhere so long as it means falling asleep with her in my arms every night.
As I pull up the long drive, I see Dorothy, our housekeeper, waiting on the porch, and I frown. What the fuck? Her face is pale, lines of anxiety carved around her kind eyes as she hurries down the steps to meet us.
Ice trickles into my veins.
"Who is she?" Tempest asks.
"Dorothy, our housekeeper." I pull to a stop at the head of the driveway and climb out of the SUV, meeting her halfway. "Dorothy? What's wrong?"
"Oh, Dalton." She throws her arms around me, hugging me fiercely. I stiffen in surprise before curling an arm around her. Dorothy has never been the hugging type, at least not with me. She saves all of that shit for Lena, who eats it up.
"It's Mr. Denver," she says, her voice trembling. "The ambulance just left with him."
"Ambulance?" The world tilts dangerously beneath my feet. "What are you talking about? What happened?"
"I've been trying to call you," she says, wringing her hands. "I found Mr. Denver collapsed in his bathroom this morning. I think…I think he had a stroke, Dalton."
Maybe it's time for you to mind your own damn business, go to hell, and butt out of my fucking life.
My words slam into me and the world tilts again. I sway on my feet. Dark spots swim before my eyes as panic claws at my throat. No. Christ, no. Not again. I can't lose someone else, not like this. The last goddamn thing I said to him…
I can't fucking breathe.