Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
But he doesn’t get out of the bed.
And when I throw my arms around his neck, he’s the one who catches me like I’m falling sideways and then hauls me up against him. He’s every bit the granite he looks like, but it’s real. Our bodies are pressed together. My curves bump up against a whole lot of hardness in a whole lot of different spots, and then our lips collide.
Beau tastes like mint. Expensive mint. He tastes like teeth brushed probably an hour ago, fresh air from when he went outside twice, and sin. He tastes dark and forbidden. We’re breaking…I don’t know…two contracts here? Wait, no, the bodyguard contract never said we couldn’t do this. It was just the hot bedding one.
Maybe he can add it as an appendix or whatever he calls the crap he puts on after and then get me to sign off on it.
It seems, right now, when our mouths are mashing together so hard that there are almost teeth involved, and my hips are already trying to ride against him and find the perfect spot, this was inevitable. This bed was always going to catch fire, and we were both always going to be caught in the combustion zone.
Here’s my naughty confession. I’ve read so many books about dark, sexy villains, and they always give the promise that they’re so nasty and bad that they’re good. And, of course, the villain always reforms in the end and becomes all soft and blah. But that’s not real life. Real life is this. Real life is a person that’s not a villain or a hero. He’s probably not even an anti-hero. Do I care about any of that right now? No. I’m pretty sure there’s nothing regular about this man, and no matter how hot or hard or not hard or vanilla or not vanilla he is between the sheets, I’m going to enjoy it. I’m going to enjoy it because he has the right tools, and it’s been a very lonnnnnng ten months for me.
Translation: I’m basically horny as fuck.
Well, no, that’s not the translation.
No matter how long it’s been, that’s not what’s making me hot right now. It’s Beau. It’s been him and his body and his scent and all the dark, sexy energy he throws around as a big old grump. It’s the contract telling us we can’t. It’s the other contract implying this is taboo. It’s the age gap, the financial gap, and the difference in personalities.
Even still.
Even with all the forbidden and taboo making me want to do it more, I can’t do it with him if it doesn’t feel right. If I just want to give myself an orgasm, I’ll be panting all over my own fingers right now or some toy. But yeah, that’s not special for me. And if it’s the wrong person? That wouldn’t be special, either.
I want this with Beau because he’s Beau. Not because he’s rich, and not because he’s here at the right time in the right place to fulfill a very needy need.
It’s just him.
It’s the smell of his skin, the way his body moves against mine like we’ve been lovers for a century, the raspy growls he lets out, the way he kisses, the instinct and intuition, and beneath all that, it’s the soul he’s got wrapped up and hidden away behind bricks and barbed wire. It’s been calling for me, and the bruised, careful, and hurting parts of me have been screaming out for him.
This is about more than just sex. Even if it’s about the sex, too.
And I’m pretty sure it’s about more than that for both of us, which is why this is going to work.
I already know it.
Chapter ten
Beau
Ignacia basically instinctively climbs me like a spider monkey. It’s hot. She has nice legs, and they feel even better when they’re wrapped over my hips. She wants to top me, and I’m the kind of guy people probably think won’t be topped, but I don’t mind it.
I mean, seriously?
The views from here when I flip us around and let her get comfortable on top of me are incredible.
The curve of her breasts, jiggling in that lovely feminine way whenever she moves, the curves of her waist and hips defined by how she’s sitting back, and her core, hot and wet straight through those cotton pajama shorts? Fuck. Me.
I know she’s going to. And despite everything screaming at me not to do it, several contracts and a lawsuit looming that’s roughly the size of this entire country, I’m going out of my mind here. I’m losing reasons to resist. Maybe we can just do it with clothes on. Dry humping or whatever nasty thing it’s called. Although, it’s too hot to be called dry, and I don’t think there’s a single dry spot on either of us right now.