Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 100493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
“Come in.”
Ivy pushes it open, standing there in my old Winter Games shirt. It’s faded and worn, hanging off one shoulder and landing past her knees. She looks cute as fuck. Especially since her hair has that whole, just got fucked vibe going. I’ve always been obsessed with her hair. It’s so long and thick there’s more than enough to grab onto, which is a plus, since she won’t miss any if I end up accidentally tearing some out.
I smirk up at her, pushing back from the desk until the chair rolls far enough for her to see the invitation. She takes it, crosses the room without a word, and climbs onto my lap.
Her knees press into the leather on either side of my hips, her weight settling against me as my hands fall to her thighs.
She drags her fingers into my hair, thumbs pressing slow circles against my temples.
Fuck. I could get used to this. Attempted murder aside…
My eyes roll closed and I groan.
Her nails drag across my scalp. “Are you okay?”
If I gave her the honest answer, she’d probably go round two with that attempt. The thought tugs at the corner of my mouth, and I don’t bother hiding it. “You’re wearing my shirt.”
“Kind of never washed it either.” Her response shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. “Smells like you.”
I grip her thigh. “You kept your dead ex-lover’s shirt?”
“Lover?” she asks innocently, thumbs still working my tension apart thread by thread. “Or toy?”
My hand slides up under the hem of the shirt, landing on her hip. I press my thumb into the groove of it and her breath catches.
She watches me for a long moment. No venom, just Ivy. Those mint green eyes softening.
Mine.
“Who were you talking to earlier?” she asks, her gaze flicking to the laptop. Thank fuck for auto-lock or I’d be left explaining those cameras in her room.
I shrug. “Nobody worth mentioning.”
With one arm bracing her back, I stand, and her legs lock around my waist. She drags a finger over the scar at my throat while I carry her downstairs. Typical Ivy, taking a moment she thinks I’m too busy to notice. She still hasn’t asked about it. Figure she will eventually, and then what? What will I tell her?
As soon as we hit my bedroom, I lay her down over the white sheets. Her hands don’t leave me. They slide from my neck to my jaw, before pulling me down with her.
My lips crash against hers. I’m fucking fighting a losing battle when it comes to her. Every time I try to starve out my feelings, they come back hungrier, more savage, willing to do just about anything to get what they want.
The kiss goes slow and deep. My tongue slides against hers, drawing a low sound from her throat that goes straight to my groin.
Her fingers spread flat across my chest, my heartbeat hammering into her palm. Too fast. She’ll know.
“Ash,” she whispers, and it cracks my chest wide open.
Nothing I want to answer right now. So I kiss her deeper, tilting her chin up with my free hand so I can get the angle I want, the one where her whole mouth softens against mine.
She arches beneath me, reaching, like she’s trying to close a gap that has fuck all to do with space. Her hips lift, meeting the weight of me, and the shirt rides up her thighs.
My hand slides from her jaw to her waist, holding her there. Mine. The thought is a gut punch, and my forehead drops against hers.
For a second, everything stops. Just the two of us, suspended in the thick silence, our chests rising and falling out of sync. With every flicker of her pulse, every blink of her dark lashes hitting her cheeks, I know exactly what she’s doing. She sees the wreckage I hide inside, and she’s trying to fucking piece it back together. I fight the urge to look away, to fucking run, to ignore the twist in my gut telling me I can’t do this.
Because I fucking can’t.
She catches my face in both palms, and a sound escapes me.
Searching my eyes, she pulls herself closer. Her lips feather over mine, and I suck in a breath. Too fucking gentle for something that feels like my heart getting ripped out of my chest.
Tell her.
I kiss her instead, pulling the shirt over her head. My shirt.
She lifts her arms, helps me strip it off, and then she’s bare beneath me except for black lace that’s already damp when I drag my knuckles over her. She tries to work my shirt off with her feet, giving up and coming to her knees to drag it over my head.
Her mouth finds my tattoo, and my skin burns when I feel the soft slither of her tongue trace the lines that lead up my neck.