Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
“Open up for me, Amelia.” My thighs begin to tremble, but I do better than he bids. His knees dips, the satin-smooth head of his cock a stroke against my wet ribbon of flesh. “Wider.” His foot slides against mine, his open mouth a wet press to my shoulder. He sucks, drawing a sound from my throat as he coats his crown in my wetness.
Our eyes lock, but he doesn’t smile, the moment too dark for flippancy as he pushes inside. Whit grates out a sound, though it might’ve easily been me, the shock of being so full of him is so sinfully delicious.
He rolls his hips, then thrusts harder, pleasure radiating through me, my body clenching a greeting around him.
“Oh Jesus,” he groans in a plea for mercy. “Do that again.”
But my consciousness too feverish to heed his words. My knees almost buckle but for where he holds me, where he fills me, stretched and full to his hilt. With a flex of his hips, he continues the torment. Long, punishing thrusts, shallow teasing jabs as his finger curl around my shoulder to hold me in place—to hold me for his pleasure as he gives and I take.
“Oh God!” I cry out, my breath clouding the mirror again and again as he fucks me with something that looks like vengeance, those dark, feral eyes watching and his body take, take, taking.
“Louder, darling,” he demands in the spaces between his thrusts. “I want the walls to shake with your sounds.”
I begin to thrust backward, my body in charge, driven by an all-consuming need as hot liquid pleasure spreads through me.
He groans, thrusting firmly, changing tempo at once. This time, he offers me no mercy, which is just the way I want it as I meet him cry for thrust. An exquisite tension builds inside, the intensity mounting and twisting with the collision of skin. Higher and higher it spirals, pushing all the air from my chest until I come loudly, my mind fragmenting, my body flexing and arching through its chemical release.
26
MIMI
“Morning.”
A tiny shiver of anticipation run down my spine at his voice. I don’t turn around, instead giving my mind a moment to revel, a moment to pretend this is my everyday reality. Whit greeting me in the kitchen, pressing a kiss to my head as he reaches for the Lucky Charms. Not that he either kisses me or reaches for something as fun as Lucky Charms, but a girl can pretend for a moment or two. Even if said girl isn’t destined for such a future, a fact reinforced when I’d found myself relegated to another bedroom overnight. On the one hand, it feels kind of weird, given I slept with Whit in his bed the night before. Yet on the other hand, why should it be weird. It’s not like we’re even a thing. Maybe I snore, and no one has thought to tell me.
“Good morning.” I lift my head from where it’s pressed against the cooling coffee cup in my hand, turning a brief smile Whit’s way. The rasp of his fingers against the dark scruff on his cheek makes my insides bloom and heat. I shouldn’t feel like this but can’t seem to prevent it.
“You worked out how to use the machine, then.”
“I found a jar of instant,” I say, pressing the cup back to my cheek. “The coffee machine was too intimidating to contemplate.” Surely, a Keurig would be easier. Something with pods?
“Want me to show you how it works?” he asks, pulling the milk from the fridge. “Latte, right?”
“No, thank you.” I kind of jiggle my cup. “This is good.” Too much caffeine gives me fluttery palpitations, which lately makes me feel anxious. Or maybe it just makes my parents feel anxious? The line is so blurred it’s hard to remember who has the problem.
“What about breakfast?” he says, putting the milk back.
I will myself not to blush as my mind slips to yesterday morning’s cake and mango fest. It feels like such a long time ago somehow. Realizing he’s waiting for an answer, I give my head a belated shake. “I’m not hungry yet.”
“You’re sure I can’t tempt you?” he says, jiggling an espresso cup. I don’t deign to answer and barely look up. Not until he begins to busy himself with the machine, his back facing me, when I indulge in a little temptation. He is a study in London grays this morning, though the sun is uncharacteristically bright and shiny this April morning. Shorts that look to have been sweatpants in a previous life hang from his narrow hips, a well-worn gray T-shirt clinging to the architecture of his broad back. His hair is slightly bed mussed, making him look sleep-ruffled and warm and all kinds of sexy.
Sure I can’t tempt you? I play the words in his accent back in my head. I’d jump on his back like a clingy spider monkey if I thought it would do me any good. Why am I so crabby this morning?