Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 134531 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 538(@250wpm)___ 448(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134531 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 538(@250wpm)___ 448(@300wpm)
His words sank into my skin, wrapping me up in him. In us.
My skin heated up, my very insides starting to turn to flames.
One of Swiss’s hands stayed at my hip while the other went to the back of my neck to pull me down, closer to him.
The grip bordered on painful, and my body responded to that pain with immediate pleasure, my climax hurtling toward me.
“Tell me,” he demanded, voice hoarse.
My breathing was too rapid to get any words out.
“Tell me,” he growled, tightening his grip. “Tell me that you’re not going to leave me, Kate.”
My blood thrummed, sang for him. “I’m not going to leave you,” I vowed.
And that’s what it felt like. A vow.
One I surely couldn’t keep. But one I made nonetheless.
Chapter Seven
Kate
I did not sneak out the next morning.
Swiss woke up before me.
And he woke me up with his mouth.
Then his dick.
Suffice it to say, it was almost noon before we got out of bed.
I had never stayed in bed ’til noon.
Ever.
Even when I was sick with a horrendous flu and had a temperature of over one hundred, I was up making Preston’s egg white omelet at six in the morning. Even without my expectant, abusive husband, there was Violet. She loved to sleep. Ever since she was a baby. It was quite concerning at first. And once she started school, I had to physically pull her out of bed.
She was a dreamer, my girl.
Then there were her lunches I had to make, no processed food or sugar, everything fresh, homemade. There was inevitably some kind of event or bake sale I had to contribute to.
Moms didn’t get to sleep in.
Even during this whole… road trip? Psychotic break? I’d kept my regular hours, both out of routine and fear. I hadn’t been sleeping well at all. Nightmares.
Except for the two nights I’d had with Swiss when I’d slept like the dead.
After we woke up the most hedonistic way a person could wake up, we took a shower together.
I was delighted that Swiss’s small but cozy room also had an attached bathroom. I’d feared some kind of communal scenario before I’d seen it. It was a decent size too. And clean. There were a few products littering the vanity, products that were now arranged neatly.
Swiss stared at them. “Countess, did you organize my toiletries?” he asked slowly, sounding like he was choking back a laugh.
I bit my lip. “I couldn’t help myself,” I blurted. “I was in here, you know, using the facilities.” My face flamed with the realization that I was talking to Swiss about peeing. “And after washing my hands, I just… straightened things up.” I threw my hands up in the air in surrender. “Mom habit.” I looked down then back up at him. “Do you think I’m terribly lame?”
His eyes were soft, dancing with amusement. “No, baby, I think you’re the cutest and sexiest woman I’ve ever had the honor to know.”
Holy. Crap.
I hadn’t had a moment to process that because at that moment, he grabbed on to me and hauled me into the shower where he fucked me again.
Because of my post orgasm haze, it was only when he was about halfway through cleaning me that I realized what he was cleaning me with.
“Is that two-in-one?” I asked, blinking to try to focus on the red bottle in his hand.
To be fair, being in the shower with Swiss, there were a lot of other, more important things to focus on rather than a red bottle of shampoo.
“What?” he asked, his fingers working my scalp as he massaged the shampoo into my hair.
With lead arms, I managed to snatch the bottle from him. “Oh my god,” I whispered. “This is three-in-one.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” he asked, moving his hands to shield my head so the shampoo did not roll down into my eyes.
“It means that this should be burned in a fire,” I said, holding up the bottle. “This says it works as shampoo, conditioner and body wash. I yanked it closer to my face, squinting. “And face wash! It’s a four-in-one. Criminal. Absolutely criminal.”
“It’s soap, baby,” was Swiss’s response, laughter in his tone.
I tried to look up at him, but he pulled my head gently backward to wash the offending ‘soap’ from my hair. “It is not soap,” I argued. “This is not something any individual should own. It’s especially criminal that your skin looks how it does, and all you’ve been using is this!” I held up the bottle for emphasis.
“How does my skin look?” he teased.
“Perfect!” I cried. “Which makes no sense.”
He laughed. It was low and throaty and like butter.
He pulled me to his wet, naked body—how was I talking about soap right now?—tilting my head upward now that my hair had been rinsed out. “Countess, my genetic makeup means I’m blessed with pretty good fuckin’ skin regardless of what kind of shit I put on it.”