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)
When I realize that one more minute of this and I will not be able to control myself anymore and gush into her sweet mouth, I pull her off and return the favor. Spreading her open, I devour her until she’s crying out, hips bucking against my tongue, fingers yanking at my hair.
Then I’m fucking her wildly all over the bed.
I take her on her back, legs over my shoulders. Then I flip her onto her stomach and drive into her from behind, one hand fisted in her hair. In a flash, I’ve bent her over the edge of the mattress. Her hands grasp the sheets helplessly as I pound hard and deep into her. I can’t get enough. I need her closer, deeper, mine in every possible way.
The pace turns frantic, desperate. Skin slapping skin, her moans turning into broken sobs of pleasure, my name tearing from her lips. By the time we’re done, the sheets are a wrecked mess, twisted and damp beneath us. Neither of us can move. My muscles feel like liquid, my heart is still hammering against my ribs. I drag myself off the bed on shaky legs, grab a clean blanket from the closet, and pull it down onto the floor with us.
We collapse together, tangled in each other’s arms. Her head rests on my chest, her body soft and spent against mine. I stroke slowly down her back, feeling the way she melts into me completely. I press a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair — sex and jasmine and something that’s just her — and close my eyes.
This is all I want.
Her. Us. Right here.
The rest of the world can burn for all I care.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
VIOLA
Istill can’t stop thinking about that night.
I’m at the studio wheel, the familiar hum of it spinning beneath my hands, but my mind is miles away. Back in our bedroom, back to when that blood-red dress had pooled at my feet. My concentration lapses and my fingers press into the clay a little too hard, and the side of the mug collapses. Again. I sigh, scrape it off, and start over for what feels like the tenth time today. I want this one to be perfect for him. Something distinctive, something that feels like him. I’ve thrown so many versions already, each one destroyed because it didn’t quite capture what I’m trying to say.
The clay is cool and slick under my palms when my mind wanders again, and I remember the way he’d looked at me in the mirror when he fastened the necklace around my neck. Such raw, awed hunger in his eyes. His fingers had trembled just slightly against my skin. The hard press of his cock against my back, already thick and ready. It makes heat bloom between my legs even now. How he’d dropped to his knees behind me, kissing the backs of my thighs, the curve of my ass, his mouth so hot and sexual it had made me shake. Then later… God, the way he’d taken me all over the bed. I tried, but I couldn’t hold on. His forehead was pressed to mine while I fell apart beneath him.
I know now that I’m not just falling for him: I’m falling hard. The feelings run deep. So deep they scare me. My heart races every single evening when I know he’s coming home for dinner. I find myself glancing at the clock, counting down the minutes, my stomach fluttering like a schoolgirl’s.
It’s kinda terrifying, because I told myself I wouldn’t let this happen. I swore this relationship would stay a contract, body only, easy to walk away from when the time came. But how could I help it? I’ve never been happier. Not once in my life. I love the feel of the clay, the quiet focus, the way it lets me create something that’s truly mine, but the truth is I can’t wait to go home the second I’m done. I want to see that rare, real smile he saves only for me. I want to feel his arms around me again.
I finish the mug. A simple, sturdy shape with a subtle swirl in the clay. Setting it carefully on the tray, I carry it over to the kiln attendant. As soon as it’s loaded, I wash up quickly, grab my bag, and head home. It’s a little earlier than usual, but I want to have a special dinner ready for when he walks through the door.
I’m halfway through chopping vegetables when I hear the elevator ding.
My knife pauses mid-slice, the blade hovering over the bright red pepper on the cutting board. My heart jumps, a quick flutter that makes my breath catch. He’s early. Really early. Usually, he doesn’t walk through the door until later, sometimes much later. I wipe my hands quickly on the dish towel hanging from the oven handle, and step out of the kitchen, confusion and a sliver of fear twisting in my chest.