Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 91065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“Oh my God, Dex,” she whispers, voice filled with pleading. “I want you.”
I need you.
The words send a jolt of arousal through me, and I kiss my way back up to her lips, capturing them in a searing kiss.
“I want you too,” I murmur against her mouth. “So fucking much.”
Our bodies press together. I can feel the slickness of her arousal against my thigh, and it takes everything in me to not lose control.
I want to take my time, to savor every moment—not dump my load after three minutes. I haven’t been inside her yet; how fucking embarrassing would that be?
I kiss my way down her torso, nipping and licking at her skin, drawing those glorious soft gasps and moans from her lips. When I reach her pussy I pause, staring up her body, my breath hot against her most sensitive spot.
“Yes, do it,” she begs, hips lifting slightly, seeking more.
“You little beggar,” I tease. “You want me to fuck you with my mouth?”
I love how she’s completely undone.
I lower my head, tongue tasting her.
The taste of her—the way she cries out my name—makes me want to make lapping her up my next career. I lick at her slowly, teasingly, building the tension.
Frustrate her beyond belief.
Her hands grip my hair, her hips rocking against my mouth as I increase the pressure, sucking gently on her clit. Her moans are louder now. Desperate. Unfulfilled.
I know she’s close.
“Oh my God, don’t stop,” she demands, bossy little thing.
I have no intention of stopping, but I have no intention of telling her that.
I want to drive her over the edge; I want to feel her come apart in my mouth.
My fingers slide inside, just right. Margot cries out, her body tensing, shuddering as she climaxes.
Fuck yesss . . .
I watch, mesmerized by the sight of her lost in pleasure, her body arching, fingers gripping the fabric of the couch—a couch I will never sell or get rid of.
And then, when she finally relaxes, I kiss my way back up to her, capturing her lips in a tender kiss.
“That was . . .” Her legs quake beneath me. “Amazing.”
“Was it?” If there’s one thing I love, it’s a compliment.
“You know it was.”
“You stop rolling your eyes at me,” I reply, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Because we’re not done yet.”
Her smile is lazy, and she stretches. “Are you finally going to fuck me?”
Finally going to . . . “You sassy brat.”
I move over her, positioning myself at her entrance, and she moves too, wrapping her legs around my waist, pulling me closer.
So wet.
So hot.
I slide into her slowly, savoring the feeling of being inside her, the way her body welcomes me.
Tight as fuck.
“Holy shit.” I can barely breathe.
Jesus Christ, she feels amazing.
So much so that I have to remind myself to pump my hips, to drive into her.
We move together until we’re in sync, each thrust, each moan, each kiss, each time she clenches so she feels tighter.
I am going to lose my mind.
“Faster,” she commands, nails digging into my shoulders.
It hurts so goddamn good . . .
Chapter 28
Margot
I wasn’t digging in the garbage, honest I wasn’t.
I was simply tossing a wrapper.
In my opinion, Dex should have been smarter with his subterfuge, but if there’s one thing I won’t accuse him of, it’s being a rocket scientist.
“Dex.” Babe. “What’s this?”
Because to me, it looks like a bag for an Italian restaurant. And a receipt. And cooking instructions.
That son of a bitch lied to me!
I pull out a white half sheet of paper that had been stapled to a paper bag, then hold it up toward the light.
“Mama Lucia’s Lasagna,” I read. The name of the restaurant is printed at the top, followed by step-by-step reheating instructions.
I feel a mix of amusement and annoyance bubbling up inside me.
“Dex!” I call out, wanting his ass in the kitchen so I can get answers. “You’ve got some explaining to do!”
Dex saunters into the kitchen, a smug smile on his face—the afterglow a man might display after getting thoroughly laid—until he sees the object in my hands.
His eyes widen, and he stops dead in his tracks. “Uh, I can explain.”
“Oh, can you?” I wave the paper instructions in the air, lips pursed. “I cannot believe you lied and told me this was homemade lasagna.”
He scratches the back of his head—if he’s trying to look bashful, the attempt fails. It comes off as immature.
“Okay, you caught me.” His hands go up. “It wasn’t homemade. But I swear, I made the pasta from scratch!”
I cross my arms. He so did not make that pasta from scratch—it’s part of the entire dish!
“Stop lying, dude!”
He gives me what I assume he thinks is another sexy grin. “Don’t call me dude.”
“Don’t change the subject.” I feel myself scowling, deepening the already dense wrinkles between my eyes. Ugh!