Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“Ryan,” I whisper, rolling the R, using my raciest of intonations. “You’ve an arse like an onion.” I tighten my grip on said excellent arse.
“What?” Her mouth curls, but with a snap of my hips, she cries out.
“It makes me want to cry, because it’s so fucking lovely.”
“That is . . .” Amusing, judging by her expression.
“C’mere till I get ahold of ya,” I say, wrapping my arms around her, pulling her body with mine as I fall back onto the dining chair. “Let me wear the face off ya.”
She’s all smiles as she leans back a little. “Gonna need a translation.”
I grip her thigh, and fuck me, the sight of her. All pink and wet, stretched around me. I can barely stand it.
“It means I want to kiss you.” My hand almost covers the entire back of her head as I bring her mouth to mine and do just that.
“Wow.” Her mouth falls open in a soft O as I thrust and simultaneously pull her down against me. And again. “Yes!” On the tips of her toes now, riding me. “God, you feel so big.”
“Just the right fit.” Her velvet walls pulse around me, stealing my wits. But I’d seriously become an idiot for this. “Give me your mouth,” I demand, dragging her lips to mine again. I can’t get enough.
Joined in two places, we’re all swallowed moans and lewd sounds as our bodies meet. With each flex of her hips, I drive myself deep. No teasing, no games. This is primal. Primitive. From the way her nails pierce my shoulders to the overwhelming war rising through me.
This, my pulse pounds. Mine. I want to own her. Make her bend. Fill her. Fuck her until she submits.
“Yes!” As though hearing my thoughts, she cries out, her pussy grasping me like a fist.
“That’s it, darlin’,” I rasp. “That’s it.”
Her back bows, her pussy throbs, and I swear by all that is holy, her eyes roll back in her head. But I’ve no time to dwell, to enjoy the signs of her pleasure—of a job well done—as demand rushes through me. My pleasure swells, heat and sensation spreading through me as my body is pulled under by the rhythm of hers.
Chapter 11
Matt
I wake to rain lashing against the windowpane. And the other side of the bed cold.
As I stretch out, enjoying the ache in my abs, my ears strain to hear sounds other than the miserable weather. Ryan might be making coffee or taking a shower. Checking her phone while curled on the couch?
But these are all wishful, optimistic thoughts. Thoughts contradicted by the gnawing ache in my chest. She’s long gone, and I have no one to blame but myself.
“Fuck,” I mutter, dragging myself upright and raking my hand through my hair. I feel kind of robbed. If I’d considered for one minute that she might . . .
Feck it. No use crying over spilled . . . champagne. And strawberries, I think as I pull on the linens half hanging off the bed and stained with both. A bit of chocolate too.
I ordered room service during a break in the fun, so hungry that my stomach had started eating itself. I also ordered a bottle of champagne, given that’s what Ryan had been drinking, and I felt like celebrating. We both laughed when it arrived accompanied by a bowl of chocolate-dipped strawberries.
My mouth lifts on one side, as though hooked, as I remember how she took the piss—busted my balls over this.
“Oh, honey, how sweet. You ordered the Valentine’s package?” Her expression—so much for never wanting to be held for an hour. Or fucked for an hour.
I paused in the action of shoveling one in my gob—I would’ve eaten a photo of the Last Supper if that was all that had been delivered—and decided strawberries, a steak sandwich, and frites could wait. Because someone needed that gloating look kissed off her face.
My smile falters as the memory fades, and with a sigh, I drag my sad and sorry arse out of bed.
There isn’t one sign of her here, in the suite. No stray earring. No scribbled note with her phone number. Just the lingering scent of her perfume and the aftermath of our marathon fuck fest. Stained sheets, half hanging off the bed. A bed well used and linens she rolled herself in, like a burrito, as she slept. Plates of half-eaten food and an empty bottle of champagne. Throw cushions and towels strewn around the place. We fucked in the shower, then out of the shower, thanks to the temptation of slipping towels.
There’s a handprint on the still-gray window and a heart-shaped arse print on a wall mirror, which also reveals the hickey on my neck, my fucked-up hair, and a bite mark on the inside of my bicep as I reach up to straighten it.