Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 136296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
I wrap my hand around the back of his neck. “And I needed to tell you.”
He eases in, one slow inch at a time. Our eyes drop, and I lower a hand, my fingers grazing his shaft as he pushes in, stretching me, filling me. I drag my fingers over my clit, and everything clenches.
“Don’t do that again, please.”
I clench. “You mean this?”
“Fuck, Clover. You’re killing me. I’m going to embarrass myself.”
I take his face in my hands. “Kiss me.”
He presses his lips to mine, soft and sweet as always. We tilt our heads, allowing the kiss to deepen—tongues stroking, bodies connected, but unmoving, apart from his fingers running up and down my spine.
When we finally come up for air, his eyes search mine. “Why is it like this?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know how to explain it. I want more of you. I feel like you’re as much inside me as I am inside you. I feel seen. Whole. Like nothing matters but you and me.”
I smile softly and settle my hand on his chest, right over his heart. I’m in so much trouble with this man. But at least we’re in trouble together.
“I feel it too, this inexplicable draw. You’re more than a craving; you’re a need.” I wish we were in different places in our lives. I wish this wasn’t so complicated.
He nods once. “I didn’t mean to get in this deep.”
“I know. Me neither.” I wrap my legs around his waist.
I pull his mouth to mine and get lost in the feel of him and the connection that draws me deeper into the web of desire, now tangled with emotional weight.
Twenty-Eight
Inside the Bubble
Clover
The next morning, we don’t get out of bed until close to noon, having stayed up ridiculously late because of our mutual insatiability. When our stomachs start rumbling at each other, we make our way to the kitchen, put on a pot of coffee, and get started on breakfast.
I find the fridge fully stocked. “You thought of everything, didn’t you?” I set a carton of eggs and a package of bacon on the counter.
“I wanted to make it easy for us.” He opens and closes cabinets, pulling out the things we need. Then he turns to look at me. “Not to put a damper on the morning, but would you be willing to fill me in on this ex of yours?”
We managed to avoid talking about Gabriel last night, but I knew this conversation was coming, especially after the shit he pulled on Christmas. “What do you want to know?”
Maverick grabs a package of shredded cheese from the fridge. “How you met. How long you were together. Why you married him. Why you want a divorce. I just want to get an idea of what that relationship looked like for you.”
I nod. It makes sense that he has questions. “I met him at a conference during the final year of my PhD. He was a speaker, and I was enamored. He’s very charismatic and good at telling people what they want to hear. He was married once before, when he was younger, but it didn’t last. I learned why after we were married. He’s a manipulator, and he changed after the wedding. I didn’t like who I was becoming when I was with him, or how little say I had in my own life choices, so we separated.”
“What do you mean by that? How little say you had?” Maverick stops laying strips of bacon in the frying pan to focus on me for a moment.
“He made it so I was dependent on him. Right after we were married, we moved away from my family and friends. I stopped feeling like my own person.” I pause a moment, needing to breathe. I hate how lost I became. How hard it was when I realized he was all I had. I’d felt trapped.
Maverick rests his hip against the counter. “How old were you when you got married?”
“Almost twenty-seven. We were only married for six months before I left.” Gabriel had upgraded my phone, and in the process, erased all my contacts and started tracking me. He’d been adamant that he was trying to protect me. That had been the last straw.
“Did you date a lot before him?” Maverick cracks an egg in a measuring cup and dumps it in a bowl, then grabs another one.
“I had a few long-term boyfriends between high school and my PhD.” I start beating the eggs with a fork as he adds the second one.
“What do you consider long-term?” he asks.
“Over a year.” I give him a sidelong glance. “What’s the longest relationship you’ve had?”
He almost fumbles the next egg. “I had a few girlfriends in high school. Most of them didn’t last more than a few months, though. I did date one girl sophomore year for almost an entire semester.”