Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
My limbs feel heavy, my consent blurred.
"Stop fighting me," he says in a rasp, his lips close to my skin. He bends and kisses the top of my thigh, and my body reacts. "You say you don't know who you are… But I do."
I swallow hard and lick my lips, trembling. The difference in power between the two of us is harrowing, terrifying, but somehow… exhilarating. I know I’m at the edge of that precipice, ready to tumble to my certain death, and yet… I don’t care. His words linger in the air, somehow tightening the invisible shackle he has around my heart. My heart pounds, and I open my mouth to protest, but everything I was going to say dies on my lips. I don't remember who I am, and I have no choice but to accept this.
I could push him away.
Maybe?
But the way he looks at me, he's a wolf with ravenous eyes, and I'm nothing but his prey.
Who am I? Why does it feel like everything in me is tethered to a stranger?
He tilts my chin, his rough hand branding my skin as he forces my gaze to his. "You need to trust me. I know that's a hard thing to ask when you don't know me, but it's the only choice forward, Anissa." His grip tightens just a bit, enough to remind me of the power he holds over me.
Trust him? On the one hand, it feels almost logical to trust a man who has such power and control, but what if he's manipulating me? What if he's lying? Yet something stirs in the primal and wicked response to his command. It isn't trust or submission or anything logical but a raw, visceral attraction that needs no explanation, as if my body has already accepted what my mind refuses to.
"You want me to trust you, and I don't even know you," I say in protest.
Something that resembles a smile tugs at his lips. "You will, in time. We don’t get a lot of firsts. We’ll enjoy this one."
He pulls me to my feet, and it's the first time I'm standing in front of him. The last time, he picked me up and carried me, and we didn't stand together. This time, he braces me so I don't have to put weight on my cast, but there is no getting over the fact that he towers over me. The warmth of his touch burns through the thin fabric of my clothes, and his hands slide down my waist. I shiver when he grips my ass and cups it possessively.
"I'll give you a little time to adjust," he says as if he's granting me a favor, a boon, his voice deceptively soft, but the underlying edge of control remains. With two fingers on my chin, he lifts my face to his and presses his lips to mine. Every protest dies, and my body leans into him. My mind grows fuzzy, and my body heats with electric waves. He smells like clean mountain air and raw alpha male, and the way he touches me leaves no doubt about what he plans to do with me.
This is a man who has control, power, and knows his way around my body. Every nerve ending in my body is on fire, and I want to scream for more. I want him to lay me down and ravish me. I don't need to have even the slightest bit of memory to know what I want him to do because I crave primal, visceral need. There needs to be nothing between us. I’m starting to resent that I’m still wearing panties and practically grinding myself on him when he kisses me. He squeezes my ass, lifts me, and on instinct, I wrap my good leg around his torso. He's holding my weight so it doesn't hurt, bends, and kisses me as if he owns me.
Maybe he does. No, not maybe… He definitely owns me. My mouth opens. His tongue licks mine, and my pussy throbs. A rush of heat blooms between my legs. I’m aching for him. Is my response to him because I have some muscle memory of pleasure, or is it just that I know this is a man who knows what to do with me? I keen with pleasure as his lips continue, his tongue pressed to mine, and I moan when he pulls away.
"I'll give you time to adjust," he murmurs in my ear, his voice deceptively soft but the underlying edge of control undeniable. “My good, beautiful girl.”
I swallow hard as he eases me to the corner of the room, where a large, overstuffed ottoman sits beside the couch.
"Sit," he commands, his voice hard. I am vulnerable, exposed, and incapable of defying him.
So I sit. His eyes sweep hungrily over me one last time before turning toward the bathroom.