Total pages in book: 227
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
Looking down, I see his arm slide around my waist, easing me back gently, his hips rolling, showing me his condition. He’s hard again already? Then he starts walking forward, forcing my steps, the bed our destination. The sheets are strewn, unmade. He takes my dress and pulls it up over my head, forcing my arms up, and then unfastens my bra. Taking the straps, he drags it down my arms, his mouth falling to my shoulder, kissing me.
And I’m gone, at the mercy of his tenderness. My head falls back onto his shoulder and he moves in on my neck, working my throat, up to my chin, encouraging my face toward him. A brief look into my eyes before he claims my mouth, his hand sliding over my tummy, over my pubic bone, and into the wetness, his other hand cupping a breast. My short nails bite into the flesh of his forearms—my grip fierce—as he kisses the daylights out of me, and I try to keep up with his tongue’s attack while dealing with the onslaught of pleasure.
I bend on a whimper, the pressure building immediately, flames and sparks ruling me. My hips roll, my body quakes, he tugs at the ring in my lip, scissors his fingers over my pulsing clitoris.
Gasping, I come all over his hand, cry out into his mouth, scratch desperately at his arms, forcing my body back into his. I’m given mere seconds to gather myself before I’m being pushed down to the bed front first. My knees sink into the mattress, my arse high, my chest and face flat on the sheets. I look across the bedroom, calm but apprehensive, hearing him unfasten his trousers. Remove his shirt. The rip of a condom wrapper. He takes my arms and holds them by my wrists at the top of my backside. The feel of him pushing against me cools the need slightly, and I close my eyes, dazed, accepting him, taking it all, slowly and surely, until I’m full to the hilt. I squeeze my eyes closed, dealing with the mild discomfort, as he holds himself deep, breaking me in gently, his spare hand stroking my arse cheek. His breathing is loud. My body screaming for movement is louder. But I’m too scared to speak again. To allow the wrong words to fall out in the throes of passion, to lose control of my mouth.
I really want to be here.
So I say nothing and simply listen to his breathing. My eyes ping open when I feel the pad of one of his fingers meet the nape of my neck. Covering the scar there. I wait for him to ask, my manufactured reason for the mar ready.
But he says nothing and drags that fingertip down my spine slowly, and with each inch it covers, I relax. He starts to roll his hips, not thrust or pump, just roll—firm and slow—and only when the pain eases does he pull out and drive forward again, like he’s sensed I’m ready for it.
My skin prickles, my body naturally following his movements, instinctively pushing back as he thrusts forward. I let my lips part, flex my hands where they’re secured, try to urgently catch air and fill my lungs.
He slips in and out.
In and out.
Slowly.
My blood simmers in my veins, rushing to my head.
In and out.
Measured.
My heart beats its way into my throat.
In and out.
Meticulous.
He grunts, and I feel him pause for a moment, feel his shakes. Controlling himself. He slips back in, the wet, hot friction on my insides cooling the burn but at the same time enflaming the want.
“Fuck,” he curses, pulling out, taking my hips and turning me onto my back. And I’m hit with the sight of a six-foot-two-inch god—naked and ready—eyes hooded, lips wet and parted, his perfect face covered in beads of sweat. I’ve never seen such a perfectly fine-tuned form. And the way he’s looking at me?
Pulsing.
Ready.
Hungry.
He kneels on the end of the bed, slips an arm beneath my lower back, and moves me up the mattress. Then settles on his forearms, eyes level with mine, his hips held up. And we’re back in that place of gazing. Scanning each other’s faces. Silent. It’s as if we both know not to talk. We don’t want talking. But do we want this level of intimacy? It’s too intense. Is this still scratching an itch? I don’t know. But he definitely hasn’t fucked me yet.
He should. He should fuck me, because that’s what he does, and that is what I expected from him. With that in mind, I reach down between us, braving taking the lead, and take him in my hand, encouraging him to me.
“Pearl,” he whispers, eyes clenching shut as he circles and plunges deep.
I cry out and lift, burying my face in the crook of his neck, taking the pleasure and pain and nothing else. My muscles tense, gripping him inside of me, and I suck his neck, tasting his salty skin, biting at him. His moves become more urgent, and I welcome every drive, my body accepting all of him and the complete mindfuck that is this situation. But for the life of me, I could never stop it. He’s given me two orgasms, and a third is on the way. It’s a new feeling, a feeling of raw abandon, when I can focus on nothing else except the pleasure about to consume me and rock me to my core, sate me, calm me, leaving my lungs drained and my heart pounding.