Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 109299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
But meeting a man at a bar and having this kind of zingy chemistry is like being in college all over again.
And the best part of college was sex.
That’s what I want tonight. I want this man to relieve some of the pressure I’m facing by relieving another pressure. He’s like an answered prayer, this tattooed hottie. The sleeves of his button-down shirt are rolled up, revealing muscular forearms with ink coasting up his fair skin, geometric shapes that have me staring at the art and the muscles. How do you even get muscles in your forearms? I squirm a little at the thought of him throwing me around with those strong arms. What do the rest of them look like? How far up does the art go under that button-down shirt I want to rip off?
Soon, you’ll find out soon.
I meet his gaze again. His eyes are intense, but thoughtful too. The look in them—both soulful and filthy—makes my pulse kick up.
Under the low light in this corner booth, anticipation threads through me, spooling through my cells as I wait for him to make the next move. He lifts a big hand and I think he’s going to cup my cheek, but instead, he covers my shoulder, curling his palm over me. Powerfully.
Making me shudder.
He pushes down my hoodie another inch, then slides his thumb along my collarbone.
And that’s…shivery.
I tremble head to toe, then lean in to his hand, mesmerized by the way he travels along my skin. Taking his time, he changes direction, coasting his fingers back then up the side of my neck.
I let out a shuddery breath.
This is…outrageously sexy.
He’s touching me in some kind of slo-mo seduction. His fingers move to my jawline, the pads grazing along my face, then coming to a stop at my chin where he holds me. Roams his thumb right under my lower lip. Breathes out hard, full of wanting.
I am done.
“Just kiss me,” I whisper, already begging.
His lips curve up in the pleased grin of a man who holds the cards. “Patience,” he says, voice deep and in charge.
“I’m not feeling very patient,” I murmur.
“Good,” he says, a lion toying with his prey.
Pounce on me.
I’m caught in his tease. In his talented hands. In his dark eyes. They’re the deepest brown I’ve ever seen. A tempest of colors, like dark chocolate and black coffee. His hair is dark, wavy, the perfect length to hold on to. His nose, strong and Roman. His jaw, square. His lips full, lush, and confident.
And so damn close.
As he gazes down at my mouth, he raises his other hand, then holds my face in both his palms. He hasn’t even kissed me yet, and somehow this warm-up exercise is the hottest moment I’ve experienced in some time. I can’t wait to drag him back to my room. He can take my mind off anything he wants, and he can do it all night long.
If he just kisses me.
But he doesn’t. He looks. He studies. He parts his lips.
And still, I wait.
Until I can’t. Until I’m squirming.
“Dammit, just kiss me,” I plead, since I can’t stand this.
He tsks me, shaking his head. “Say please.”
I pout. “Fucker,” I mutter.
He laughs devilishly. In charge. “Try again,” he says, amusement and arousal in his tone.
Two can play. “Please…fucker,” I taunt.
Another chuckle.
“Much better, Ripley,” he says, and it sounds like my name on his lips tastes good to him. So good that I close my eyes.
The world is dark for a few delicious seconds, and I’m sure he’s going to kiss me the way he touched me—with slow, tantalizing, barely-there kisses. But the second his lips touch mine, I hurtle into new terrain.
He crushes my mouth with his, and I gasp in surprise. He swallows the sound in a bruising kiss that knocks me off-balance, even though I’m sitting. His hand curls tight around my head. He kisses with a hunger I’ve never experienced before. With a passion that’s all new to me.
It’s hot, deep, a little rough.
It’s the kind of kiss where you haul a woman up against the kitchen counter and bend her over. It’s a kiss that says we’re both grown-ass adults who need to blow off steam.
But when he breaks the kiss, his eyes flash with guilt, maybe. Or is that concern? “Shit, was that too rough?”
He says it like he’s legit worried. Like he thinks I might not like his rugged kiss. “No, it wasn’t,” I say, breathy and surprised.
He breathes out hard, perhaps grateful. “Good,” he says, then purses his lips, like he’s holding something back. Maybe that he likes it a little rough?
Maybe I like being rough too.
I grab the collar of his shirt, jerking this big man a little closer. “Just to be sure though…do it again.”
“Yeah?” It’s asked with a wild kind of delight.