Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
“Keep riding my cock. Don’t stop grinding your hips. Keep your orgasm going, baby.”
She does as I say as her orgasm rolls into another one. She grips me as I keep fucking her with the toy and my dick. She’s so tightly wrapped around me, and I click a higher speed on the toy as I keep it in place. I’m thrusting my dick in and out of her as the toy vibrates at full speed.
“Fuck me,” Isabel screams out. “It’s too much, Lincoln, please.”
“Keep coming, baby. Keep coming over my cock. Show me who you belong to.”
“You,” she whispers out as my mouth collides with hers. I keep kissing her as I slam my cock deep inside her. “You own me.” She pulls the toy out of her, letting my cock get all the way inside her.
I stall, my eyes gazing down at her. “You’re perfect pussy grips me so fucking tightly, Isabel.”
Her hands fly into my hair, tugging me closer to her, and I kiss her once more, letting my body pick up speed. She flips the toy off as I get lost inside her.
I’m pounding, pushing—fucking—her. I lose control, my body unable to stop as I gaze into her eyes.
“Pill?” I shout out, my orgasm nearly here.
“Yes,” she nods quickly. “I’m on the pill. Oh, Lincoln, please come inside me.”
I don’t even have time to think before my orgasm unleashes. I pulse and jolt as my release slams through me, making me see stars behind my closed lids. Fuck me. I’m never letting this woman go.
I wake with a start, tangled in cool sheets, blinking to orient myself. For one disorienting moment, I wonder why my bed is so warm. Then I realize it’s not the bed—it’s Isabel, curled against my side, her head nestled on my shoulder. My entire body tightens at the memory of how we ended up like this, the way our desire finally sparked into something real and undeniable last night. Just the thought of it sends a surge of heat through me.
But the warmth is quickly followed by a wave of guilt. Isabel’s still asleep, her hair a dark spill across my chest, her breathing slow and steady. Gently, I slip free from the sheets, placing her head carefully on a pillow so I don’t disturb her. I pause for a second, studying the slight arch of her cheekbone, the delicate flutter of her lashes against her skin. She looks so peaceful, it almost hurts to disrupt it.
A dull ache settles behind my ribs as I ease off the bed. Even after everything we’ve shared—the tension, the closeness, the way she drove me wild last night—I can’t escape the looming problem… Dean. He has no idea what we’re doing, infiltrating these parties, using every ounce of subterfuge we’ve got. And now we’ve crossed a line that complicates everything. Part of me thinks I owe it to him to tell him what’s going on. But the other part screams it’s too dangerous, that we could blow the entire operation if he intervenes.
I gather my clothes from the floor and tiptoe out of the room. The safe house hallway is quiet, morning light slanting through the small windows and illuminating a faint swirl of dust motes in the air. I slip into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me with a soft click. My face in the mirror tells me everything: dark circles under my eyes, hair a mess. I look like a man who slept less than a handful of hours, which isn’t far from the truth.
Splashing cold water on my face helps a little, but does nothing to ease the tangle of emotions lodged in my chest. Guilt, yes, but also an undercurrent of fierce protectiveness for Isabel. Last night was sexy.
Steamy.
Out of this world insane.
Part of me wants to rush back into the room, see if she’s woken up, wrap her in my arms again. Another part warns me to keep my distance, to stay focused on the job. It’s not easy to balance these impulses.
I dry my face, pull on a fresh pair of gray sweatpants, and slip out into the living room. The morning sun brightens the living area in soft gold, and for a moment, I just stand there, letting the stillness sink in.
We have bigger problems than my guilt, I remind myself. Morris Rolfe is still out there, and we’ve come up with squat. Vera and Trey might be friendly, but they haven’t delivered anything solid. And if we want to get closer to Rolfe, we might need Dean’s help whether Isabel likes it or not.
I sigh, heading into the small kitchen to make coffee. Normally, this is a routine I can do without thinking—measure the grounds, fill the filter, add water. But today, my brain churns so hard, I nearly pour water onto the counter instead of the machine. Once it’s percolating, the smell of fresh brew soothes me a fraction, though not enough to quell the knot in my stomach.