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 mean it. I’m going to make you pay,” I say, my hips tilting towards his hand.
I see him grin seconds before he kisses me, and as his tongue finds mine, his finger finds me, stroking me deftly, exploring me. I gasp into his mouth as his finger rubs my clit in ever-tightening circles. A long finger eases inside me and I break the kiss, gasping for air now, realizing that his slow and steady foreplay has me on the edge of a massive orgasm.
His silver eyes hold my eyes and he nods once. Come.
As if I could stop it.
My body is so tightly wound, my need built so high that when my body releases, I feel as though I may come apart. I use my hand to stifle my cries, but honestly I’m not sure how successful I am. I’m not sure of anything other than the fact that I have never come this hard, never felt this good, and we haven’t even gotten to the main event.
As I try to catch my breath, Thomas eases my hand away from my mouth, kissing me with kisses that are perhaps meant to soothe, but incredibly, impossibly seem to light my need all over again.
Enough. Enough of this. My turn.
I use my hands to push at his shoulders, getting just enough leverage to scoot out between him and the door, using the element of surprise to reverse our positions, maneuvering his back to the door.
I rub against him and bite my lip before stepping back slightly. I roll my shoulders back. Shrug.
The robe falls, and Thomas swallows as I stand naked before him, his eyes hungry as they travel over me.
His way worked well—really well. Slow and steady and patient is his way.
But my way—fast, immediate, and bold—I’ve learned that works as well.
I hold his gaze as I drop to my knees, my fingers deftly unbuckling his belt and unfastening his jeans as he manages my name on a hoarse cry.
His boxer briefs are black. Designer logo. In my way.
I ease them down and without preamble take him in my mouth.
“Jesus fucking christ,” I hear him mutter. I’d smile if my mouth wasn’t full. My way works just fine.
His fingers tunnel into my mussed hair, gripping hard. His hips tilt forward and I murmur in approval. Thomas takes my cue and slowly, methodically rocks his hips forward, using my mouth for his own pleasure.
A pleasure I want him to finish, here, like this, both to return the favor, and because making Thomas Decker come undone is just about the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced. Hearing his groans, the quickening of his breath, and the tightening of his fingers in my hair . . .
Abruptly, he pulls me away, his hands hooking beneath my arms, hauling me up for a hard kiss before he kicks off his shoes and pants, then shoves me backwards, none too gently.
Our gazes lock and clash as I walk backwards towards the bed, him following, me, prey, him, hunter.
The back of my legs hit the bed, and I crawl back onto it. He removes his sweater and undershirt then follows me, climbing over me, making me feel small and feminine and very, very horny.
I see a glint of foil and blink in surprise. “Where’d that come from?”
“Pant pockets,” he says, tearing the condom wrapper open with his teeth, and then rolling it on.
I smile. “I should have known you were a Boy Scout.”
“Damn straight,” he says, his hands sliding up my shins, palms cupping my knees, lifting them, spreading my legs for him.
His hand eases between my thighs, fingers slicking through the moisture, testing my readiness.
“Yes,” I whisper when he glides a finger inside me easily. “This.”
“That?” he says. “Or this?” He adds another finger and then hooks them both upwards.
“Oh my god,” I arch. “Thomas.”
“Why?” he mutters, almost to himself. “Why do I like hearing you say my name so goddamn much?”
He withdraws his hands and settles over me. I feel the tip of his cock glide through my folds, seeking, searching—
His hips push forward, and he glides inside me slowly, easily, perfectly.
“Fuck,” I hear him groan, once he’s all the way inside me, or maybe it was me? And then it’s both of us, cursing, grasping, arching as he moves inside of me, my legs around his waist, his hands beneath my waist.
“It wasn’t supposed to be this good,” I pant in his ear, as his arm hooks beneath my leg, opening me wider.
“I know,” he rasps. “I know.”
For some reason, it’s that—that acknowledgement that I’m not alone in this earth-shattering, life-altering desire that sends me over the edge of a second orgasm.
This time it’s his mouth instead of my hand that captures my cries, and feeling his body tense, feeling his own relief coincide with mine is almost better than the orgasm itself.