Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 277(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 277(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Oh, oh… It’s like I’ve already forgotten how good he feels inside me. He glides deeper and deeper, but slower this time. The pleasure is instant. It’s like a reward from my body for taking him, every single inch, for letting him slide up and up and up. He pushes all the way inside and then holds himself deep in me, leaning down and kissing me tenderly on the lips.
I stroke my hands through his hair as he inches out slowly, the blizzard seeming so distant. Even the guilt drifts away as he slides out, looking down at me with those intense eyes, glinting obsessively. He glides in again, even slower this time.
“You’re so big,” I whisper. “It feels so, so good.”
“Perfect,” he growls. “You’re just… perfect.”
He glides in again, and then we rock like that. It’s like our bodies are melting together. It’s like our souls are melting through our bodies and fusing. I don’t care if that sounds cuckoo. It’s exactly how it feels.
“Show me how you want it,” he says, rolling over with his hands on my hips so that I end up on top of him. I brace my hands against his chest, feeling his muscles bulging through his T-shirt. I’ve never seen Jacob so obsessed as he gazes up at me.
“I’ve never done this before,” I whisper, sitting with his dick buried inside. He’s so big, he’s tickling deep, deep places. It’s a warm, sizzling spot I never even knew existed. That’s not saying much when he’s got ten times more experience than me.
“Just rock your hips. Listen to your body.”
“Like this?” Bracing my hands on his chest, I lean forward, feeling his dick gently glide out of me. Then I sit back, feeling him fill me up again, completely owning me with his size. I’m his, he said, but then he admitted it was impossible. Yet it doesn’t feel impossible as I rock atop him.
“Oh, fuck,” he groans. “You’re so good at riding my dick.”
I squeeze my hands tighter against his chest, his muscles hard against me as I begin to rock faster. He has his hands on my hips, but he doesn’t move me; he just holds them there. I’m the one leading the dance this time. I slide up and down at a tempo my sore core can take, the pleasure more teasing this time, tickling, tempting an orgasm from me.
“I could do this all fucking night,” he growls, his hands sinking deeper into my hips with more passionate ownership. “Rock like this with you. Nothing. Else. Exists.”
“Nothing else,” I murmur.
Nobody else, either, but I don’t add that part. Instead, I keep rocking on top of him. He’s right. At this speed, we could go all night, his huge, hard, thick stick completely flooding my pussy. He presses against my walls, making it a tight squeeze, making me his. He makes more room for the pleasure of finding a way. Intense spirals of pure heat wash through me, the pleasure pumping until I almost can’t take it. My whole body is shaking on top of him. I have to grip his chest hard so I don’t buck off from the passion.
He groans and sinks his hands deeper into me, subtly moving me up and down now, leaning up so he can look into my eyes. He sits all the way up so I’m rocking in his lap, and then he supports my back and kisses me, crushing me against him. We’re folded against each other completely. We’re intertwined. We’re like one being.
I moan as the pleasure bursts out of me, wave after wave of it. So much comes from hearing him moan, his urgency. Toward the end of our shared crescendo, he lifts me up and down, guiding me along the length of his pleasure. I move in time with him, turning savage. When it’s over, we’re both left shaking.
I slide off, lying next to him, head on his chest. My pussy is sore now. I’ll need a break for the rest of the night, but what will we do? Lie here and hold each other? Pretend the world doesn’t exist?
“What now?” I whisper.
He kisses the top of my head, so much more tender than I ever imagined he could be. Then he whispers, “Now we lie here. Or you paint, and I watch you because you’re so beautiful when you paint. We get dressed and let Rusty in here because he’s probably scared by the blizzard. Or, we stay together, Emma.”
“But what about—”
“There is no after,” he growls. “There’s just me and you right here.”
“Okay,” I say, kissing him again, sinking deeper into the moment, nothing else, trying to obliterate any thought of Dad or where he might be. Panic flutters in me.
This is so wrong. Dad is missing, and we just… What sort of daughter am I? What is wrong with me? When I sink more stubbornly into the steaminess of the kiss, somehow, I can push all that far back into my mind and let it go. I’m able to stifle something that should be everything to me. I shouldn’t be able to let this guilt go so easily, but I can with my man.