Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“Okay, good,” she says, sounding relieved. “I know we just met the other day, but watching you, watching Lucky, watching you two together, I can tell this isn’t just for show. I don’t want either of you to blow it over outside influences.”
My stomach flips at the thought. I can’t let that happen because I’ve been figuring out, no matter how uncomfortable this experiment is, Lucky isn’t really an experiment at all.
CHAPTER 21
Lucky
We barely make it to the couch before we’re tangled up—her mouth sealed to mine, her fingers curling into my shirt like she’s trying to anchor herself. Or maybe it’s me trying to stay grounded, because the second her lips part for me, everything else blurs.
The cushions dip as I lower her beneath my body, bracing one hand to keep most of my weight off. But I don’t want distance. Not from her.
Her hands are everywhere—my shoulders, my jaw, skimming under my shirt. I suck in a breath when her palm brushes my skin. I want to savor this. But it’s like my body has a mind of its own, tuned to her and only her.
I pull back just long enough to look at her. “Tell me if you want me to slow down.”
She’s breathless, eyes shining with amusement. “Why the hell would I want that?”
I lift a shoulder, offering a lopsided grin. “Seemed like the normal thing to ask?”
Winnie snorts and pushes at me playfully. “You’re the least normal person I know.”
There was a time that would’ve made me cringe, the allegation of normality. Because it was that distinct lack that was a mark against me. The woman who was afraid of reaching for more can now joke about it, and that’s how I know this will work.
My hand slides beneath her top, slow and reverent, and her back arches into me like she’s been waiting for that exact touch. I push the shirt higher, letting my mouth find the curve of her neck, and when I finally tug the fabric off, it ends up somewhere behind the couch. Mine follows a second later. Then it’s skin on skin and nothing has ever felt more right.
I take a deep breath and slow it down. I’ve thought about this—remembering what she feels like, sounds like, tastes like—and now that it’s real, I’m not rushing a damn thing.
I press kisses along her shoulder, down her chest, let my hands memorize every inch of her. She’s soft and warm and perfect, and when I murmur that she smells like vanilla and dirty words, she laughs—this quiet, breathy sound that heats my blood all over again.
Her jeans are next, and I take my time with those too, dragging the zipper down, easing them past her hips in a deliberate, unhurried move. She’s watching me, eyes wide, lips parted, and I swear I’ve never wanted anyone like this.
When my fingers slide between her thighs, I find her warm and wet. She bucks at my intrusion, groaning so deeply I feel it in my balls.
“You still with me?” I whisper.
“Barely.”
I grin, kissing the inside of her knee as I keep going, letting instinct and the way she responds guide me. I want to give her everything. Every touch. Every ounce of pleasure I’ve got in me.
I settle between her thighs with a sense of purpose—and maybe a bit of awe too. She’s already writhing softly against the couch cushions, her legs open for me, and when I press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to her center, she gasps like I’ve given her oxygen. Her fingers dive into my hair and tug, hard enough to sting a little—but I don’t mind. Not one bit.
The way she smells, the way she tastes… it’s the best kind of sensory overload. I glance up, catch the edge of her reaction—head tipped back, mouth open, eyes fluttering—and it spurs me on.
I shift slightly, using my thumbs to ease her open and bare the part of her that’s got my full attention. My breath hitches looking at her, glistening and pulsing for me.
I give her a slow lick, featherlight at first, and she lets out a sound I feel in my bones.
“Lucky …” She pants, voice already fraying at the edges.
I hum in response, pushing two fingers inside her, drawing a low moan from deep in her throat. She rocks her hips up to meet the rhythm, and I let my thumb join in the mix—pressing just where I know she needs it most.
I take another glance—her body stretched before me, every inch of her alive with motion. Her hands grip the cushions like she’s barely holding on.
My mouth returns to her with more intent now, teasing and coaxing, slowly building the tension. She’s so responsive, so expressive—it’s like her whole body is talking to me.
And I’m listening.
It’s all about the pressure, motion, rhythm—until she’s trembling, one breath away from unraveling. I close my lips around that one perfect spot and pull gently.