Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 57779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
I don’t know what it is between us—a spark like anger that I can’t explain that ignites us. Maybe it’s a sense of this being wrong. On some level, I know it, and he’s been trying to tell me, warn me, this can go no place good.
Business and pleasure don’t mix.
His kisses are wild, his teeth scraping my lip, his hands under my skirt and cupping my backside. I end up facing the back of a couch, hands on the cushion, not even sure where I am anymore in the room. He drags my leggings down, captures my hips, and lifts my ass into the air. I yelp with the shock of the erotic, oh, so impatient action. I prefer him like this. There is no teasing. There is no game.
I want.
He wants.
We both take.
Or maybe it’s all him. He’s in control, but I’m back to where I was that first night with him.
I like him in control. I like it very much. My body vibrates and aches with just how much I like what this man does to me.
He spreads my legs, his fingers exploring me, stroking me, fingers sliding inside me, readying me, and just when I think I can take no more, he goes “there” again. He smacks my backside, and when I arch my back, he drives inside me. I’m back to not even recognizing the sounds coming out of my mouth as he pumps into me again. I have never felt such wild abandon in my life, and it’s everything and not enough.
“Ethan,” I cry out, and as if he knows what I want, he pulls out of me and turns me around.
He’s kissing me then, lifting my leg, settling me on the back of the couch, and driving into me again. At some point, his shirt comes off, and my fingers revel at the feel of taut muscle and warm skin against me.
He leans over me, pressing me backward until I feel I might fall on the other side of the couch, but he’s holding me. He’s got me. And we grind together—wild, so very wild—until I’m trembling and quaking, and his face is buried in my neck and he’s moaning with his release. Time stands still, and our bodies slowly relax into each other.
I hold my breath then as he continues to hold me up, preventing me from falling, and wait for what amounts to the morning after. The dreaded moment of what comes next.
Chapter Thirty
We’re still leaning over the couch, Ethan buried inside me, holding me up, when he kisses my neck, and I can feel his smile as he says, “Faster than planned, but we can do it again.” He eases back to look at me, his blue eyes alight with playfulness, no longer the dark and unreadable. “And don’t say a word about me not being fully undressed. That’s your fault.” He pulls out of me and sets me on the floor.
It’s only then that I realize he wore a condom, and I was so into the moment, I don’t even know when he put it on. For a responsible person, I was very irresponsible, but I assume Ethan never allows himself a mistake to that end. A man with as much money and power as he possesses has to be ridiculously careful with people. His life might seem like a dream on the outside, but there are drawbacks, like never knowing who to trust.
“Come with me,” he orders, capturing my hand and walking through the living area of what I suspect is a presidential suite based on the elegant décor and plentiful space, though I barely noticed my surroundings. I’m naked. He is not. This is becoming common between us, and I’m not sure what to make of it.
We enter the bedroom, and soon a bathroom that is fancy, as would be expected, with a clawfoot tub and lots of deep mahogany wood décor. Ethan releases me and tosses the condom in a toilet, and before I even have time to feel a fresh wave of embarrassment, he snatches a robe from behind the door and slips it around my shoulders.
“Arms,” he urges softly, and I slide them inside, the surprisingly soft material gentle on my arms.
He holds the lapels, his gaze sliding hotly over my body before he tugs me close, my naked body pressing to his half-naked body. “You’re so fucking perfect.”
He speaks that compliment in this low, rough, guttural tone that sounds almost angry, like he doesn’t want me to be perfect, but I am, at least to him. My hand settles on his cheek, the rasp of newly forming stubble against the softness of my palm. “You don’t sound like you think I’m perfect at all. In fact, you sound like you think I’m a real bitch.”