Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
So hard, it almost drags me with it—but I fight it, every inch of my skin coming alive as she rides out this wave. As she rides me. I watch us in the mirror, one body, not two, my arms tight around her and my face buried in her neck.
The sensation ebbs but I need the flow as I curl my hand around her shoulder. Not a moment too soon as something white hot and angry shooting down my spine. I’m coming, yes, and hard, but it drags a truth through me too.
I don’t want Primrose to recover from all men as I bury my mouth against her salt-slick skin. I want to ruin her for them. I want her to be mine always.
40
PRIMROSE
Morning has transformed Luc’s bedroom.
Last night, the room was shadows and urgency, the dark gleam of wood and the pale spill of moonlight. Just fragments of a room that I glimpsed between kisses and bliss.
Now sunlight pours in through the tall windows, turning everything quietly golden. The room has traditional Mallorcan bones with honey-limewashed walls and pale ancient oak beams in a gently vaulted ceiling. But everything else is Luc to a T. Restrained, stylish, and absolutely expensive.
His bed is vast, the linens in shades of white. Or they were white. Now they’re stained with various substances and ridiculously crumpled. A charcoal cashmere throw hangs from a distressed leather chair, with a scarred metal barrel table beside it piled with books. The floors are wooden, the rugs plush, and nothing matches too perfectly, giving the room an elegant, lived-in feel.
I turn my head to the tall glass doors where gauzy curtains breathe inward with the warm breeze. Beyond is a private terrace that’s tiny and brightly tiled and hemmed in by lacy wrought iron railings.
And the view? By far the best in the house. From the bed, a person can see all the way out to the brilliance of the Mediterranean. And if I move my head ever so slightly, I can see the mountain range rising hazily to the other side. The peaks were a hazy blue-gray in the early light, though now glow gold in the sun.
I’ve been awake an age, just lying here, watching the morning light chase the shadows across the walls. I haven’t been in bed the whole time, because no girl wants to get caught looking like a bushy-haired trash panda after a night of passion.
I’d brushed my teeth with my finger, not knowing how he’d feel about me using his toothbrush (weird, I know), finger combed my hair, and cleaned away all traces of morning after makeup.
Then, wrapped in the soft throw, I’d crept around his room (on sea legs because the man shivered my timbers so good) picking up books and personal effects to see what I could learn from them. Learn about him. I’d picked up an old silver watch from his dresser engraved with something I couldn’t make out, then sniffed a bottle of cologne with a name I’ve never heard of. Looks like his signature scent was created by a personal perfumier.
Imagine that being your job: What do you do for a living? I sniff rich people.
It’s a crazy world.
I even had a little sneaky peek in his huge closet, which is bigger than my bedroom at home.
Paintings hang on the walls. A large abstract piece, modern and bold. A faded seascape and another of olive trees, both in antique frames. But the one thing there isn’t is a picture of his late wife. Is it wrong that I’m glad?
But the most interesting aspect of the room is the man himself. Bronzed skin and dark hair. I allow myself to drink him in as he sleeps.
One arm flung above his head, the linens are tangled low around his hips providing just a hint of that delicious V as sunlight warms his skin.
His chest rises and falls steadily. His shoulder still marked faintly by the press of my teeth. I ignore the thud of a pulse between my legs at that, my eyes moving instead to all those glorious muscles. Biceps, abs, deltoids, and more, pliant now with sleep. But I know how each ripples with pleasure in response to the trail of my fingers. And the flick of a tongue.
He looks as unguarded as I’ve ever seen him, sleep stripping away his worries and responsibilities. How beautiful he is without his armour. The thought catches somewhere behind my ribs. But not my heart. Not my heart.
His leg twitches, then his hand, the linens sighing softly as he stretches his arms above his head. He rouses slowly (rouses and arouses, I’d say by the look of the sheets), consciousness pulling gently at him. Muscles shift beneath his skin, chest and abs and arms, as he arches from the bed with the kind of groan that makes my insides twist pleasurably.