Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 105183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
I’m not in control. I’m owned, my moves manipulated by the pure intent in his eyes. When I’m only a few steps behind him, he continues, walking casually down a corridor and through some doors, stopping to hold it open for me before carrying on. We’re in a private lobby, another set of white-gloss doors ahead of us, console tables lining each side, all with a vase of roses set upon the top. Reaching the double doors, he taps his phone on a keypad and opens the doors, stepping inside. I stop on the threshold, looking up and around, searching for the source of the music everywhere. Jan Blomqvist. “Dancing People Are Never Wrong.”
I take a breath, my flesh pulsing harder as he places the champagne on the round table immediately inside the suite before turning and closing the door. Then he faces me, his eyes on mine, and he swallows, holding his hand out. I watch as mine lifts and our fingers brush, sparks firing. I inhale. Jude curses.
And he hauls me into him, his mouth on mine in a heartbeat, hungry but soft, his body swathing me, his hands in my hair, his tongue plunging into my mouth.
And I’m his.
Crippled by the instant rush of blood to my head, dazed by the intoxicating chemistry.
I grab his tie, returning his kiss hard, pulling it off and tossing it aside as he walks backwards, taking me with him. My dress is scrunched at the sides, lifted over my head, and dropped to the floor, and his hands are soon back in my hair as I work his buttons, my impatience off the charts. Abandoning the final one, I rip it open, shoving it down his arms as a supressed grunt hits my ears. I throw it down with force, getting my hands back on him, feeling his chest, his pecs, his stomach, before I grab fistfuls of his hair and force him harder onto my mouth, moaning. My bra is discarded and tossed to the floor, and his palms cover my breasts, making my torso concave, my nipples stinging with the pleasure of his hands brushing across them.
“Jude.” I’m so fucking frantic for him.
“Amelia,” he pants, ripping his mouth off mine and holding my face, his jaw so tight beneath his stubble. He stares into my eyes as I grasp his wrists, our faces so close, our loud breaths colliding. He looks almost angry as he gazes at me. I must look so dazed. But I am far from confused. Him. He’s like a hit of life to a part of me I never knew was dead. This feeling is consuming. The connection is bending my head. Is this what happens when you meet the one? Explosions, fireworks, a burning heat inside that might make you disintegrate? As I look into his eyes, I know I could drown in them.
And I am.
Sinking, struggling to breathe. “What’s happening?” I whisper, my mouth out of control, something taking over me.
His eyes dart across my face, his palms increasing their pressure on my cheeks as my hands grip his wrists tightly. “I don’t fucking know,” he breathes, tackling my mouth again, kissing me hard and purposefully, walking me to the nearest wall and pushing me up against it. “Let’s talk about that in the morning.”
I’m not going to argue. If he doesn’t sate this fire inside soon, I’m going to lose my mind. I yank his belt loose, push his trousers over his arse, and dig my fingernails into the solid globes of flesh. He hisses, kissing his way over my cheek, onto my shoulder, across my décolletage, onto my boob. I smack my head against the wall and look up at the ceiling, my lungs burning. His warm mouth covers my nipple and sucks as my hands drag up his back and grip his shoulders.
“Trousers,” he demands hoarsely, placing his hands on the wall on either side of my head, his eyes heavy. I slide down the wall, exhaling at the outline of his erection as I pass. Urgency has me lifting one foot in turn and pulling his shoes off, then his socks, before I reach for the waist of his trousers and fight them down his legs. He kicks his way out of them and hauls me back up his body, my legs wrapping around his waist. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he breathes, turning and carrying me across the room blindly, his lips back with me, our chests splattered together, his neck craned back to accommodate my mouth. Soft sheets meet my back, his front splayed on mine. Our kiss is chaotic and loud. He moans, I moan. He fists my hair, I fist his. Then he rolls us so I’m straddling him.
Biting his lip, I drag it through my teeth, and he groans, squeezing his eyes shut briefly before opening them and watching me kiss my way down his chest, onto his stomach, over his boxers.