Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“Don’t stop,” I say, digging my nails into his shoulders. “It doesn’t hurt, it just feels…”
“Feels…?” he prompts as he sinks deeper, deeper, until he’s fully inside and I’m fighting to pull in a breath.
He’s big enough to fill every inch of me, pressing against my inner walls, but aside from a slight bruised feeling, there’s no pain. There’s only pressure and sensation and the curious need to move, to feel him move, to create a kind of friction I’ve never felt before but instinctively crave.
“Full,” I supply, though that isn’t the exact word.
I do feel full, but I also feel electrified, aware of every centimeter of my skin in a way I never have been before. The feel of his hand squeezing my hip as he pulls back and sinks inside me again sends electricity shooting through me from head to toe.
When he bends to lick my nipple again, I nearly have an out-of-body experience.
“Oh God,” I breathe, clawing at the back of his neck as he continues to suck my breast into the warm heat of his mouth and rocks into me with slow, shallow thrusts that make the tension building between my hips spiral higher.
“Your nipples are so sensitive,” he says, transferring his attention to my other breast as he lifts my hips into the air, adjusting the angle of penetration until he grinds against my clit at the end of every shift of his hips. “One night I’m going to make you come like this, just from touching you, sucking you, biting you.”
“Oh God,” I mumble again, panting now as the wave of pleasure bearing down on me threatens to break. “Oh God. Oh God.”
“Not God, beautiful,” he murmurs as he moves faster, deeper. “Weaver. Call me Weaver when you come on my cock. Fuck, yes, come for me. Come for me like a good girl.”
His words penetrate the lust haze but it’s too late, I’m already coming so hard it feels like I’m being turned inside out. I’m spiraling and pulsing and throbbing with bliss. I’m clinging to him as he comes, soaking up every word he murmurs about how perfect I feel on his cock, even as my brain is having a meltdown of unparalleled proportions.
Because this man?
This stranger?
He isn’t an older cousin. He’s Weaver Tripp—Weaver fucking Tripp, the man who destroyed my parents’ marriage and sent my father on his final downward spiral, the one from which he’s never recovered.
Weaver is a bad, bad man and I’m even worse for sleeping with him.
But before I can shove him off me and make a run for it—or beg him to fuck me again because I am a weak, spineless waste of a human who’s pretty sure she just became an instant sex addict—a voice from above deck calls Weaver’s name.
We’re not alone, and I might be about to get caught naked with the one man I never should have so much as said “hello” to as we passed on the street.
chapter 4
WEAVER
Cursing Sea Breeze and my abundance of intrusive relatives, I swing out of bed, murmuring a soft warning for Sully to, “Stay put and stay quiet.”
I pull on my pajama pants and charge out of the bedroom, shutting the door behind me. By the time I reach the living area, a shadow is creeping down the stairs from the deck, calling my name.
Judging by the hair sticking up in spikes around the shadow’s head, it’s Mark, my worthless nephew.
The kid who thought he could handle a woman like Sully…
A surge of irrational, unexpected anger washes through me as Mark squeaks, “Weaver? Is that—”
“Back upstairs,” I say in a low growl. “You haven’t been invited into the living quarters.”
He stops mid-step, his chin jerking back into his neck in surprise. “What? This is the family yacht. We come aboard whenever we—”
“Not anymore,” I say.
“But we—” His words end in a startled grunt as I spin him in a circle and shove him none-too-gently back the way he came.
“It’s after midnight,” I say once we’re on deck and Mark is blinking in shock in the moonlight. “This is where I’m staying while I’m in town. It’s my temporary home and guests aren’t welcome in my home without an invitation.”
“Okay,” Mark says, though he’s clearly not pleased. “Sorry, I just… I can’t find my phone. I’ve looked everywhere, but it’s not at my place or at the bar or in Simon’s backyard. I think I must have left it here earlier, when I gave you the keys.”
Grateful that Mark didn’t set foot inside the living quarters this afternoon, I start toward the seating area at the front of the ship. “This could have waited until the morning. A lost phone isn’t an emergency.”
“I don’t have a landline,” he says, his tone lifting toward a whine. “And Mom throws a fit if she can’t get in touch with me.”