Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
My hands clench. “When are you not those things?”
“When a beautiful woman aims a gun at me.” His lips tilt into a half-grin.
“Does that happen often?”
“Only once.” His expression turns to stone. “It will never happen again.”
My throat seals up.
“Close your eyes.” He touches a knuckle beneath my chin.
I open my mouth to object, but his flinty glare steals my voice. He’s challenging me to do this, to prove I’m stronger than my fear.
The logical part of my brain knows he won’t cause me bodily harm. That would void the Infidelity agreement, and he needs the income. But there are worse ways to hurt a person. My heart’s been kicked, humiliated, and stabbed repeatedly, and I don’t trust it around a man like Decker Gabrielli. A man who gets what he wants with a sexy smile and a crook of his finger. He’s exactly the kind of man I fall for. And I fall hard. So hard it takes years of therapy to get my feet beneath me again.
But I’m stuck with him for a year, and I can’t keep my eyes open every second of every day. I need to trust myself. Trust that I won’t fall again.
With a steadying breath, I shut my eyes.
His fingers feather across my jaw, joined by his other hand as he cradles my face in the warmth of his touch. All my senses narrow to the shift of his feet, the proximity of his body moving closer, and the palms resting beneath my ears.
Eyes closed, I feel the air stir against my face. My lips part, and my pulse spikes. He’s going to kiss me.
Don’t freak out. It’s just an exchange of breaths. I’m not falling.
Except the instant his breath is replaced by strong lips, my nerve endings flare to life, and my insides burst into flames. His mouth is so warm, so firm and tenacious, gliding sensually, assertively against mine, sparking an electrical chain reaction through my body.
He licks once, twice, and groans, and the deep sound shivers across my skin. His fingers skim into my hair and tighten, holding me gently yet possessively. My knees weaken, and my lungs burn for air.
I gasp as the soft dips of his tongue become strong thrusts. Coaxing turns into claiming, and when I melt against the hard wall of his chest, the kiss is no longer a kiss. It’s a head-to-toe surrender. I’m not just letting it happen. I’m participating, chasing his tongue, pressing closer, deeper, and demanding more.
My grip on the railing tightens, because fuck me, I want to climb his huge frame, tangle my fingers in his hair, and wrench him against me. His breathing quickens, and urgency overrides technique. His tongue feverishly slides against mine, hot and wet and aggressive in a way that demands I keep up, but seductive enough to make me want to.
My God, the man knows how to kiss. Not just with his mouth, but with the rumbling sounds in his chest, the pressure of his fingers in my hair, and the desire fanning through his breaths. He tastes and nibbles and eats at my mouth with passion and commitment. But he doesn’t rush, doesn’t seem to be racing toward an end goal that involves me naked and pinned beneath him. He kisses me as if all he wants is to savor the taste of my mouth and the friction of our lips. He kisses me as if he could do it all day, a man confidently aware of his skill and its effect on me.
His hand curls around my nape. A massive hand. I try not to pull away, but it’s hard. He could snap my neck with a flick of his wrist. Instead, he uses his grip to keep my mouth against his as he turns us to lean his back against the banister.
The position lowers him into a slight recline, making his mouth easier to reach. With my hips in the V of his legs, I don’t know where to put my hands. But I don’t want to break the kiss. I’m too hungry and worked up. My breasts feel heavy, and the throb in my pussy pulses greedily as I suck and lick his tongue while blindly reaching for the railing.
He catches my wrist and guides my palm beneath his shirt. The hot hard surface of his abs startles me. I look down, pulling my mouth from his, to watch my fingers move beneath the black cotton.
The heave of our breaths charge the air between us as I trace steep rows of indentations between bricks of muscle. Firmly holding my neck, he lifts the hem of his shirt, revealing a sculpted torso, smooth skin, and a mouth-watering trail of sparse hair that vanishes beneath the low waist of his jeans. Jeans that strain across his thick swollen length.