Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Studying it carefully.
A strange kind of disappointment fills me when he slips them free. The warmth of his palm settles over my fingers. He wraps his larger hand around one of mine before carefully prying it away from my waist and placing it at my side. He does the same with the other.
My breathing picks up tempo, turning choppy. It feels like my arms weigh a thousand pounds, and I couldn’t lift them even if I tried. I don’t understand how they can feel so heavy.
Only then does his hands settle at the knot before slowly loosening the belt, tugging the ends free. His fingers rest along the edges near my lower ribcage. I’ve never been so hyperaware of anyone’s touch the way I am of this unknown man. Without disturbing the robe, his hands slip beneath the thick material. The heat of his palms singes my bare skin.
That’s all it takes for my world to shrink down until the only thing it encompasses is the two of us. For a long moment, his hands remain still, the pressure insistent. Seconds and maybe even minutes tick by before I find myself shifting beneath his touch, wordlessly urging him to move.
Explore?
I don’t know.
I’m confused.
I didn’t expect to feel any kind of pleasure.
It’s as if he somehow understands the silent plea. Or was waiting for a signal to continue. Now that he has it, the warmth of his palms slides upward until his thumbs graze the rounded swells of my breasts. My breath catches as anticipation thrums through me. Instead of sliding higher and cupping the softness, they move downward along my ribcage and belly until reaching my hip bones.
My teeth scrape across my lower lip as I wonder if he’ll sink to the place that now throbs with awareness. Instead, they do the opposite. Just like earlier, he massages the rigidly held muscles, loosening them, turning them malleable until it feels like I could melt into the mattress.
I don’t realize that the edges of the robe have loosened until the cool air of the room ghosts across my nipples, making them pucker and tighten.
Everything within me stills as my breathing turns shallow.
His hands rise to my breasts to palm the softness. He squeezes them in tandem before gently plucking at the hardened tips. A whimper of need escapes from me as my spine arches off the mattress and my lips part.
As much as I hate to admit it, delicious sensation ricochets throughout my being before settling in my core, where it pools like warmed honey. There’s no denying that his touch feels good. He’s been nothing but gentle the entire time.
When he first walked in, an image of the man from the elevator was firmly in my head. It was so much easier to visualize the person touching me so intimately instead of a faceless stranger. It’s disturbing to realize that the figure has morphed into someone else entirely.
Another man.
One with short dark hair and green eyes that see straight through to the heart of me. I imagine that his hands are just as strong and capable of this kind of tenderness.
At least, they used to be.
That thought is jolted from my brain when his fingers slide over the jagged scar in the valley between my breasts. I don’t know how I forgot about its existence. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t thinking about the mortification that eats away at me at the thought of someone staring at it. Other than the doctors, my parents, and Viola, no one else has seen the ugliness that mars me.
The puckers and ridges of the flesh painstakingly stitched back together again before healing in a jagged line six inches in length. Maybe there was a time when I enjoyed wearing bikinis, but it’s been years. When I shop for a swimsuit, I’m careful to buy ones that cover as much of my cleavage as possible. I don’t want people staring or asking questions with morbid fascination, wanting a retelling of the accident.
That’s not a day I want to mentally relive.
It was hard enough the first time.
“I have a scar,” I blurt in a raspy voice.
The thought of him studying me is enough to have my arms rising to shield the old wound from view. Before I’m able to do it, his hands lock around my wrists, halting my movements. Not a sound escapes from either of us as he gently returns my arms to my sides.
He gives me a gentle squeeze before releasing them. Then his fingertips settle at the top of the jagged line before sliding downward, tracing every suture that held my skin together. Fifty of them in total because of the depth of the wound.
I shift, only wanting to dislodge his hand, and choke out, “Please don’t.”
His fingers stall, pausing over the old wound. With a shift, he looms over my upper torso until I can feel the heat of his breath ghosting across the area. At this point, I’m panting. Any moment I’ll hyperventilate as my chest rises and falls in quick succession.