Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
It isn’t even in the same realm.
When I flop onto my bed, too exhausted with confusion to stay upright, the bedding puffs up around me. With its waft comes the unmistakable scent of Dante’s cologne. It’s comforting and clean and clings to every surface of my apartment like an unwanted houseguest who refuses to leave.
I returned the money this morning before Camille even woke, but the bedding smells like he drenches the bundles in his cologne each night before delivering them, which means every night I fall asleep surrounded by his scent.
It’s made my dreams extremely vivid the past few nights. For the first time in years, I wake sticky from something other than nightmares.
Shamefully, I lift the bedding to my nose and inhale deeply. My pulse thuds in my neck when I catch traces of his cologne clinging to the stitchwork.
Before my head can warn my heart that it’s setting itself up for failure, I suck in another big breath. My actions are pathetic. I know this, and I hate myself for it, but my bedding is the closest I get to having everything I want, even with my greatest desires only a few feet away.
When I flatten the blanket over my face, Dante’s cologne is stronger than the lies I tell myself about not wanting him. It’s so powerful that with a few whiffs, I formulate the perfect way to untangle the knot twisted low in my stomach.
Self-care isn’t self-indulgent.
It’s self-preservation.
When I run my hand down my body, my shoulders arch and my lashes flutter against the scratchy material of the blanket. My panties are soaked, and the rush of ecstasy from the dampness on my fingertips pools more wetness between my legs.
I only sleep in a shirt since the high setting of Dante’s apartment heating flaps the curtain separating our spaces throughout the night. It blasts my studio with humid, sticky air that grows more stifling when I roll my thumb over my clit.
My control snaps when my sawing breaths double the intensity of Dante’s scent. He smells close, like he’s hovering above me, ready to enter me.
Breathless, I stuff two fingers inside my pussy while using my other hand to massage my breasts. The stretch isn’t painful since my fingers are nowhere near as girthy as Dante’s, but it still feels incredible.
I move them in and out, and within seconds, moisture coats them more with every thrust.
Pleasure skims over my skin as the tension of the past two weeks slowly fades. I part my lips and release the faintest moan, but for the most part, I stay quiet while strumming my clit in time with the frantic thumps of my heart.
My nipples bud as goose bumps race across my skin, but no matter how many times I twang my clit and squeeze the walls of my vagina around my thrusting fingers, the crest I’m seeking never arrives.
It’s there, sitting on the edge, but it’s hard going back to cheap back-alley tricks when you’ve been bedded by a master.
I keep going, though, desperate for release.
My thigh muscles grow taut as I toy with my clit. The pressure on the nervy bud is perfect, better than I could hope, but still fraudulent.
Well, that is until I remember how amazing it felt when Dante’s tongue caressed it.
Sighing, I thrust my head back and close my eyes. Sparks hot enough to ignite a fire shoot from my midsection when I picture Dante hovering over me, watching every indecent stroke of my fingers. I imagine the front of his pants tenting as his teeth catch his lower lip. He’d battle not to take control, and his expression would be a mix of fury, pleasure, and unmistakable horniness.
“Please,” I murmur into the sticky, manufactured air when the thought of his desperateness has me pumping my fingers faster.
My clit throbs a dull, persistent ache of pleasure and heat, and I whimper. The sensation flowing through my core curls my toes and mists my skin with sweat. But the pressure feels wrong. The wave has formed but won’t crest no matter how hard I work my clit.
I groan as the ache between my legs fades, and the fantasy fueling my selfishness recedes with it. “No. Please. I need this. I’m close—”
My lungs stop accepting air when a voice I’ll never forget asks, “How close?”
I rip the blanket off my head before turning my eyes toward Dante’s voice. Although the “walls” of my room are closed, the curtains don’t reach the floor. Tan leather shoes peek out the bottom, rising from a shadow that’s too broad and imposing to be hidden by a thin sheet of cotton.
“Don’t stop,” Dante demands when I attempt to remove my hand from my panties. “Keep going.” Heat pulses through my legs from the desperation in his voice. He needs this as much as I do, like making me come, even without touching me, is as vital to him as his next breath.