Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
“Do you want some?” she asks softly, holding the spoon out toward me.
I shake my head, voice rough. “I can’t remember the last time I had ice cream. No thanks.”
She smiles — small, almost shy — and tries to convince me anyway. “Come on… just one taste. It’s really good.”
As a rule, I never change my mind once I have made it, but when I see the way she’s looking at me, hopeful and a little playful, I realize I can’t say no to her. I lean over, open my mouth, and let her feed me. The cold sweetness hits my tongue, and I lick it slowly, deliberately, eyes locked on hers the whole time. When I pull back, she looks away fast, but not before I catch the way her breath hitches.
I smile to myself, knowing she’s just as affected as I am. Good. I want her thinking about me non-stop, the same way I do about her.
The light turns green, and I start to pull forward, but she surprises me by leaning across the console, one hand sliding to the side of my neck, her fingers threading in my hair. Her mouth finds mine. Soft at first, then deeper, hungrier. I lose myself instantly in her taste. Caramel, salt, sugar, and her. My tongue slides against hers, slow and possessive, and a low groan rumbles out of me before I can stop it. My hand leaves the wheel to cup the back of her head, pulling her closer. The kiss turns wet and urgent, the kind that makes the rest of the world disappear.
Only the cacophony of angry honking behind us drags me back. Cars are waiting. I pull away, lips still tingling with her.
She sits back fast, cheeks flushed bright red. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, voice shaky.
I shake my head, swallowing the taste of her. “Don’t be.”
The rest of the ride home is quiet with me focusing on the road, but my cock is still hard and throbbing, and the air between us crackles. After what seemed like a lifetime, we pull into the garage. I unload the groceries, and we get into the elevator. We are both silent, but when her shoulder brushes mine, I have to clench my jaw to keep from touching her. The second we step into the kitchen and set the bags down on the counter, I can’t wait anymore.
I grab her.
My hands close around her waist, and I lift her onto the table in one smooth motion. She gasps, eyes wide with surprise.
“Sorry,” I say, my voice rough, low, and not sorry at all. “But I can’t wait.”
I pull her blouse over her head before she can answer, the soft fabric whispering against her skin as it slides off. The sight of her hits me like a punch to the gut. Her smooth, flushed skin glows under the yellow kitchen lights, the delicate lace of her bra is the only thing left between me and her gorgeous breasts. My hands are already moving, impatient, hungry. I tug the bra down roughly, and my mouth is on her instantly.
I take that tight pink bud into my mouth as if I’ve been starving for years. My lips close around one nipple and suck hard enough to pull a sharp moan from her throat. She arches into me, back bowing, fingers threading into my hair. My tongue swirls, teasing the sensitive peak until it’s swollen and glistening. I graze my teeth over it gently, just enough to make her gasp, then soothe the sting with my tongue again. I move to the other breast, devouring it with the same relentless hunger: sucking, licking, kissing every inch of soft skin I can reach. She tastes warm. Sweet.
Addictive.
My hands roam everywhere. I grip her hips hard, fingers digging into the soft flesh, then slide up her ribs, thumbs brushing the sensitive undersides of her breasts. I cup them, squeeze them gently, feeling their weight in my palms while my mouth continues its worship. Every moan she utters goes straight to my cock.
She trembles wildly under my hands, breathing fast and shallow, her body responding so perfectly to every touch. I love how she opens for me, how her guarded coolness cracks open and melts to a puddle the second I put my mouth on her. That tells me she is mine.
Then my fingers brush the inside of her upper arm, and she flinches. Immediately, I glance down, and that’s when I see it.
A red bruise. Dark. Ugly. Fresh. Finger-shaped.
Everything inside me stops. My mouth freezes against her breast. My heart slams to a halt. The world narrows to that mark — the exact shape of someone else’s fingers pressed into her skin. Mario’s fingers.
Rage surges through me. It doesn’t explode. It doesn’t shout. It settles deep in my bones like ice. It is the kind of rage that is lethal. It plans. It calculates. It promises violence so thorough the other person will never recover.