Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
It’s like he has to own every part of me as he slowly finds his rhythm, working my hips against the wall with every stroke, and my whole universe condenses into this man and his devil thrusts.
Dexter Rory, ruiner of all future sex.
The only thing that exists here are his clever fingers—one on my nipple, the other finding its way to my center and the sensitive nub pleading for attention—and the way he’s moving inside me.
Oh. My. God.
I’m not usually the kind of girl to lose my head over amazing sex, but this isn’t that.
This is a rock concert made flesh.
The way his cock moves with a punishing rhythm, the way his tongue chases mine, the way his roughness explodes again on my tongue and his hand mauls my breast is infinitely more than a lust-drunk romp.
It’s so good it’s devastating.
Right now, I couldn’t tell you which way is up.
The pleasure heightens, the steam oozes through my flesh, and I’m so close it hurts.
I rake my nails over his shoulders, loving how he tenses against me and snarls louder, pinching my nipple in response.
“Don’t stop,” I beg as I approach the edge, feeling his pace quicken. “Dexter, don’t you dare.”
“Shit!” Groaning, he bites my neck, sucking harshly at my flesh. “Do you know how fucking close I am?”
“Oh my God.” My nails hook into his shoulders.
“Come for me, sweetheart. Right fucking now.”
I couldn’t hold back if I tried.
I just hold on to him for dear life as feral heat explodes through me in lashing waves that take me into white-hot ecstasy and drop me back on my head, echoing straight to my fingertips.
And he’s there the whole time, still grinding his hips against mine, roaring as he empties inside me.
He holds me as I shudder against him and curses as my orgasm heralds his.
He grinds out a “fuck” that ends the universe where we could ever go back to being strangers.
We both detonate, finishing together in a tangle of limbs and mingled breath and so many new unknowns.
After this, I don’t know how I’ll ever fake another breath with this man.
16
THE SWEET SPOT (DEXTER)
I wake up next to a sun angel.
She’s curled up with her head on my shoulder and her autumn-red hair splayed across the pillows like a tangle of fall leaves. The morning light makes her shimmer.
Her breath is cool against my skin.
She sleeps with one arm flung around my head and the other cradled by her chest.
Goddamn, what a sight.
What a vision.
I could stare at this woman for the next century and it wouldn’t be nearly long enough. My memories of last night are contradictions, vague and precise and brutally dick-hardening.
The sex, explicitly detailed.
If I wasn’t already waking up as hard as a rock, that would do it. But how we wound up here, in my bed, it’s all a blur.
I’m sure I insisted on it after fucking her in the shower, the hallway, and again in the kitchen after pulling together a breakfast-for-dinner of bacon and eggs.
Last night, I was crawling out of my skin, pacing outside her bathroom like a deranged wolf until she was finished showering. Then her magnetic draw became too much to resist.
I made my move and now we’re here.
Waking up together with infinite complications.
I expected to feel—shit, a lot of things, truth be told—but seeing her lying next to me like this, it’s not the confusing mess I expected.
Mostly, there’s guilt.
Then fear, then heartache, then a splash of good old-fashioned self-loathing for fucking up this much.
Is it really a fuck up if it feels this good, though?
Does it have to end in disaster like indulging some horribly addictive drug binge?
If we never had to leave this bed and deal with those questions, I’d be a happy man. Whether it’s watching her sleep or fucking her brains out, she’s stirred up some insatiable hunger, some madness that tells me I need to experience every part of Juniper Winkley.
Even my eyes grow hungrier the longer I stare.
There are faint freckles dusted across her nose. I never noticed them before.
Her long, natural lashes have the same coppery-red tint as her hair, and when she’s asleep like this, her forehead is smooth. No sign of the creases it carries when she’s awake and wrestling with a thousand worries about her store, her life, and the mess I’ve created.
She spends too much time worrying for a woman so young.
She’s only in her mid-twenties, but when she frowns, she looks like she carries the weight of someone twice her age.
That damn store.
Not that I wasn’t handling heavy responsibilities at her age, but looking back, they weren’t exactly good for my health, physically or mentally.
Goddammit, I shouldn’t care this much.
But when I can feel her every breath and after I’ve been inside her, it’s impossible not to care about this beautiful, wild, impulsive slip of a woman.