Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 40635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 203(@200wpm)___ 163(@250wpm)___ 135(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 203(@200wpm)___ 163(@250wpm)___ 135(@300wpm)
We're like the old broken strings I used to play with. When I lived on the streets, I couldn't afford to replace the damn things when they broke. Everyone says it can't be done, that they're never the same. But I figured that shit out. When something matters enough, you find a way. And this right here? Me and her? We matter.
The tension may have snapped us, but right here, right now, we're mending us back into place. The sound may be subtly different when we're done. We may have new grooves. But we still play just the same. We still love the same.
That's all that matters. It's the only thing that matters.
And it's the only thing I'm thinking about when I crawl up her body, pressing my lips to hers. Love. I fucking love her. Now, I get to show her.
At least, that's the plan.
Apparently, she has other ideas. Because as soon as my lips touch hers, she places her hands against my shoulders and pushes, forcing me backward.
"Baby, what's—?"
That's as far as I get before she's sitting up beneath me, still pushing against my shoulders. My eyes lock on hers, and I see the gleam in her eyes. My goddamn mouth goes dry.
"It's my turn now, Grayson," she says.
I don't tell her no. Christ, no. I let her push me down onto my back and stretch out my legs, my hands locked together behind my head. If my wife wants to have her way with me, who the fuck am I to stop her? No one, that's who.
She settles on her knees beside my hip like a pretty little angel, her hands in her lap, her wild hair cascading over her shoulder. "Where should I start?" she teases, her tongue tucked into the side of her cheek.
"Oh, I can think of a few places," I mutter.
She smirks at me, her hand darting out to settle over my erection. "You mean here?" she asks, squeezing gently.
I groan, arching into her touch as precum spills into my boxers. "Fuck, yeah. Right there, Mina. Right fucking there."
Her little laugh has my heart rolling over in my chest. She squeezes me again, her eyes lighter than they've been in days.
Fuck, I missed this playful side of her. She was always so playful back then, always so fucking happy. I want to give her back the security to let herself feel this again. She deserves it, more than anyone I've ever met.
Her other hand drifts up my abdomen, her eyes practically glowing when my muscles contract beneath her palm, reacting to the electric feel of her hand on my body.
"I love that," she whispers. "You always did that."
"I don't do it. It just happens. As soon as you touch me, my body just fucking reacts."
"Mine too. It's like everything inside me starts straining toward you, desperate for you." She slips her hand up higher, her bottom lip quivering as she feels the edge of a scar beneath her fingers. "I hate what they did to you."
"You don't have to touch them, baby. You don't even have to look at them."
Her gaze flies to mine, her eyes wide. "That's not what I meant," she whispers, her expression stricken. She leans down, pressing a fervent kiss to the scar.
I choke out a breath, my heart clenched in a vise as she runs her lips over every inch of it. And then she seeks out the next, doing the same damn thing. Every scar she finds, she spills her love across, leaving me wrecked and trembling beneath her, clinging to sanity by the skin of my teeth.
Only when she's finished does she lift her head, her watery eyes meeting mine. "I meant I hate that they hurt you," she whispers. "Not that I hate looking at you. These are a reminder that you survived. They shatter my heart, but seeing them…it means you're here, Grayson. That's what I think when I see them. That you're here."
"Jesus," I whisper, my throat tight.
And then she squeezes my cock again, stroking me through my pants. I buck my hips into her hand, greedy and eager despite the intensity of the moment. Perhaps because of the intensity of the moment. I don't fucking know. All I know is that she's got her hand on me, and I can't think straight.
I lose the ability to think at all when she dips her head, wrapping her lips around me through my jeans.
"Ah, fuck," I groan, spearing my hand into her hair. "You're killing me, baby."
"Not yet," she whispers, pulling back to tug my zipper down. "I haven't even started killing you yet."
Jesus H. Christ. I'm not going to survive this. I know I'm not.
She pulls my dick out, freeing it from the confines of my boxers, and I stop fucking breathing. The head is red and swollen, beading with precum…as fucking desperate for her as the rest of me. Moreso. He had a single taste yesterday, just enough to remind him what he's been missing for all these years.