Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 69858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
I kiss him back with all the pent-up frustration of the past weeks, my fingers messing that too-tidy hair, my body aching with the pressing, relentless need for more.
It’s the urgency of it, the sheer craving that terrifies me, and has me pulling my mouth from his, breathing hard.
His eyes search mine, both hot and frustrated.
“If we do this,” I say on a pant, “we do this my way. I don’t want flowers, I don’t want to meet your mother, and I won’t be your little woman.”
His fingers close around both of my wrists, lifting my arms above my head as he pushes me backwards, pressing me to the door, my hands pinned above my head.
His mouth easily finds my neck where the robe has loosened from our wiggling, his breath is hot against my neck, his words low and raspy. “I didn’t bring flowers,” he says, his tongue flicking over my skin. “I sure as hell am not thinking about my mother right now. But—”
His teeth scrape lightly my throat. “I am going to make you my woman. Just for tonight.”
It’s not a question, but I answer him anyway, my hands digging into his hair, hauling his mouth back to mine. Yes. Yes. Yours.
And he’s mine. For now, just for now, he’s mine. Knowing we’re on the same page emboldens me, and my hands move more confidently over him, exploring everything I can reach—the corded muscles of his back, his flat torso, the hard planes of his chest.
His mouth is greedy on mine, as though he’s been starving for this. For me. My fingers slip beneath his sweater, finding hot, male skin and he hisses out a breath and pulls back.
“Be sure, Mac. Be very sure.”
In response, I lick the center of my bottom lip.
“Alright,” he says gruffly. “Alright.”
His hands have been exploring me over the robe, almost chaste in comparison to the boldness of his mouth, but now they move over me with purposeful teasing, fingers digging into my hips, palms brushing over the sides of my breasts, idly, deliberately . . .
I moan a little in frustration, and he captures my lip between his teeth, nipping at the exact moment his hands cover my breasts.
“That,” he murmurs, his palms opening wide, teasing the tips through the robe. “That what you need?”
I swallow and manage to shake my head.
“No?” His hand slips into the V of the robe, but barely, the backs of his fingers hot against my collarbone. “This?”
Again, a shake of my head, resisting the urge to arch into him, fighting to maintain control.
“Hmm.” He frowns, as though baffled. Holding my gaze, his hand drifts downwards, his knuckles pressing ever so slightly into the top swell of my breast.
“Closer,” I manage.
He continues to stroke there, agonizingly, the motion of his hand slowly opening the robe, bit by bit as though by accident, until it’s loosened enough for his hand to slide down a bit farther.
I let out a loud moan as his fingers make fleeting contact with my aching nipple.
“Ah,” Thomas says in satisfaction. “Here.”
He loses all pretend hesitancy now, his fingers teasing the tip of my breast, rolling it, flicking it, pinching it, slowly notching up my pleasure until I think I might die from it.
I feel his other hand at the belt of my robe, slowly tugging it free until my robe falls open, the rush of cool air against my heated skin making me gasp.
Then I gasp for another reason as his tongue flicks over my nipple, just once, a hot, wet brush with heaven.
He scatters kisses over my chest, the sides of my breasts, the undersides, leaving the aching tip wanting.
My head moves restlessly against the door. “Thomas.”
“Mac,” he says, his eyes flicking up to mine, and the sight of him so close, but not where I need . . .
I take his cheeks in my hand and push his head down, and he answers the silent request immediately, lips closing over the tip of my breast, tongue rolling around my nipple in soft, hot licks.
He takes his time, giving my other breast equal treatment. I’ve always imagined that being with nice guys must be boring, tepid, routine, but I realize now there’s an advantage to sex with a gentleman I hadn’t considered—Thomas is patient, generous, gently pushing away my hands when I try to hurry things along, to give some sort of pleasure in return.
By the time his palm strokes over my belly, his hand slipping between my legs, I think I might die from the agony of being held on the brink of pleasure without release.
Even now, he takes his time, fingers stroking the folds of my sex without parting them, touching, but not delivering.
I let out a choked, furious laugh. “I hate you.”
He presses just a bit harder, parting the folds a bit more, teasing the wetness even as he withholds relief.