Total pages in book: 148
Estimated words: 147734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Then he does just that. Vaughn fills me up to the brim with hot cum. My dick twitches a bit, coming more after I thought I was all dry.
“Fuck,” he breathes out. “Fucking hell, you’re my favorite thing ever.”
“You look hot covered with my cum.” I reach out to stroke it and make him gag on it, but he does that thing again.
The stupid thing that makes me want to spontaneously combust. He’s not supposed to make me feel this way.
I know he’s sort of just experimenting and will up and leave like he did four years ago.
But I can’t help but watch with bated breath as he grabs my hand, turns it over, and presses a soft kiss to the center of my palm, releasing a sated hum against my skin.
My heart expands and explodes in a thousand fireworks.
I’ve never been one for small gestures of affection. I’ve never loved anyone in that way, and it doesn’t come naturally to me. But Vaughn—raised in a family where love seems to be naturally expressed—wears it with ease. Even when he walls himself off, affection is still second nature to him.
And now, I’m thinking of all the little kisses he gave Danika, and my heart fucking plummets from its high.
My solution? I need to do something Danika would’ve never done.
Own him.
Possess him.
Keep him.
I lunge up. “Baby, I need to—”
“Fuck again. I know.” He chuckles as he falls on top of me, still buried inside me. “Give me a minute, yeah?”
“A whole minute?”
“Five, actually.” He strokes my hair and sighs in my neck. “Then you can come inside me.”
“Nope.” I grab him by the back of the neck and flip us over so I’m straddling him. “I’m in a hurry.”
His laughter echoes in my ear as I slam my lips to his, drinking his laughs, his joy, swallowing him fucking whole.
I guess it’s not normal to want to be all over him any chance I get.
But I’m scared that if I stop touching him, he’ll disappear.
Again.
28
VAUGHN
This was a bad idea.
The worst idea ever.
I only suggested we go out to distract Yulian because the damn guy wouldn’t stop fucking me.
It doesn’t matter how many times we go, he’ll be ready in minutes flat, demanding one more round.
And I’m sore and, frankly, tired. I haven’t slept much since the flight, and the marathonic sex isn’t helping in allowing me to recover.
Even when I tried to swim in the indoor pool, Yulian barged in—literally cannonballing, drenching the place. Then he was all over me, teasing, touching, trying to seduce me. Not that I have a ton of self-control around him, but at least I’ve got more than he does.
He’s like a ball of energy that won’t just sit down and do nothing.
And truthfully, I admire that about him—his boundless enthusiasm, the way he bulldozes through life without hesitation. He’s everything I’m not, and where I once saw that as reckless weakness, I now see it as awe-inspiring.
But not right now.
Not when he lets go of the handlebars, his arms flung wide, embracing the air while the bike tears forward at a terrifying speed.
My arm wraps around his stomach tightly as I start to reach over, then remember I know nothing about motorcycles and sit back down, holding on to him with both hands.
“Stop it, Yulian,” I shout over the wind.
“Come on, it’s fun!”
“It won’t be fun when we die.”
He laughs, the husky sound swallowed by the wind. “So dramatic.”
Thankfully, he grips the handlebars again. Not so thankfully, he guns the speed, weaving between the few cars on the highway, each near miss sending my pulse into overdrive.
“Slow down!” I shout, hitting his chest.
“Ow.” He pats my thigh, then grabs it, squeezing slightly, and a rush of apprehension cuts through me, soaking me through.
One thing I truly don’t hate about this is having my thighs pressed up to his, his back flush against my chest, my hands glued to his abs that I can still feel through the gloves and leather.
“Stop thinking and feel the wind, Mishka!” he shouts, his hand going back to the handlebars. I’m glad he’s not driving with one hand, but I can’t fight off the disappointment at the loss of it on me.
Honestly, what the hell?
I’m the one who suggested we go for a ride, so he’d get distracted and stop thinking about fucking. I meant a ride in my car, but Yulian, being Yulian, said, “That’s so boring, let’s go on this baby instead.”
It’s not a “baby,” it’s a motorcycle. An inert, unfeeling object.
But I didn’t say that, because Yulian was so excited about the prospect of showing me around. We suited up in leather—I insisted since he’d planned to ride half naked like the reckless bastard he is. Now I’m wondering if there’s more protection out there beyond the jacket, boots, and helmet, because Yulian rides like he’s begging for death.