Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 28386 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 142(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28386 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 142(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
It does, though.
Great.
“What did you mean when you said I can’t possibly be your person?”
It’s hard to ignore the fact that his voice is deeper now. “Well. Before you…arrived, I was having a moment of self-pity. Feeling bad for myself. And I wished…” It sounds so ridiculous to admit this out loud. “I wished for my person.” I purse my lips at him over my shoulder, playfully. “I wonder if you crossed paths with him on the way here.”
The chair goes flying across the kitchen when Blaste lunges to his feet, his strength pressing me forward against the counter, his chest hard and heaving against my back, his mouth on the slope of my neck. And it’s like we’re two shock paddles connecting, electricity spearing through my veins, every muscle in my body going totally and utterly weak. I drop the butter knife in my hand with a clatter and focus on inhaling, exhaling, supporting myself on gelatin legs. “Go ahead,” he rasps, his lips ghosting up the side of my neck, his hot breath turning my nipples to spears. “Pretend you don’t feel that.”
“I feel it.” My voice is shaking. “I do.”
“I’m your person, Shiloh. You asked for me and I came.” Slowly, he picks up the knife and continues making the sandwich with me standing in the circle of his arms. “I’ve regained just enough self-control to stop myself from slam fucking you in that slutty dress, sugar. But so help me God, if you ever imply again that there’s someone else out there meant for my woman, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”
His woman. I’m almost embarrassed by the twisted quickening south of my belly button. Why aren’t I outraged over his disgusting speech? Why is it making me feel hot and needy and confused? Are you really this quick to change your standards? “You can’t…you c-can’t just say these things. The way you speak to me is unacceptable.”
He sets down the knife and slowly slides his calloused hands up and over my breasts, kneading them roughly, pulling a sound of my throat I had no idea I could make. It’s a raw whine. It’s reluctant hunger. “You might want to let your rear end know my words are so unacceptable, sugar. You rub hard like that on my cock a little longer, you’re going to finish me before I finish this sandwich.”
Sure enough, my hips are pushing back, my backside working circles against the big bulge behind his zipper while he palms my breasts, jiggles them and teases my hard nipples with his thumbs. It feels so good, so wild and good, but I’ve completely lost any semblance of self-control. My reaction to this man is not normal and there is so much to figure out, so much to worry about, like how we shattered the rules of space and time. Not to mention how he’s going to get home. And I really, truly need to get myself together to solve these problems.
“Who lives here with you, sugar?” He slides a hand inside of my neckline, kneading my bare breast with a harsh groan. “You got a ma or daddy coming home that might catch me with my hands all over this beautiful little body?”
“Uh.” Do I? I can hardly think straight. “M-my mom. My mother. She’s at the hospital. She won’t be home until morning.”
“You shouldn’t have told me that, Shiloh,” he chides in my ear, hips rocking against me, hard and close enough to bring me up on my toes, his hands drawing my neckline down, down. “Can’t you feel my hard dick? Don’t you know where I want to put it?”
The point of no return is approaching very quickly. I don’t know how I know that, being that I’m as inexperienced as humanly possible when it comes to men. However, something tells me if I don’t apply the brakes, I’m going to let Blaste have his way with me, right here in the kitchen. And I might be confusingly turned on by his chauvinist attitude, but I will not give in so easily. Absolutely not. Nor will I let my hormones distract me from conversations that need to be had.
Garnering every ounce of my willpower, I struggle free of the spot between Blaste and the counter, hurriedly fixing my neckline and smoothing my hair while he stands inches away, watching me closely, his chest rising and falling on shallow breaths.
“Can we slow down?” I half-gasp, when I accidentally graze my own stiff nipple.
He pushes all ten fingers through his hair, doing amazing things to the muscles of his chest, his triceps. Mouthwatering, flexy things. “Why?”
“Why? We just met!”
He drops his hands heavily to his sides. “Ah Jesus, Shiloh. We admitted this shit between us ain’t normal,” he says, gesturing between our chests. “Stop trying to make it that way. Let it be what it is.”