Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 148397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
“No.” I grasped his length and squeezed.
He exhaled in a rush. “Don’t—ughhh.”
That noise.
That groan and growl and grunt.
It made my very spirit quiver as I stroked him, up and down, sharing my fire, making him burn with me.
Another groan fell from him, slashing at his self-control.
The timbre of his growl; the echoing, earthquaking tone. It vibrated through me, rearranging my pieces and sending me higher than the sun.
I squeezed the base of him, teasing us both as I rode his length, coating him in my desire.
His head tipped back. His lips pulled away as he snarled at the ceiling.
“I’m on fire, Hen.” I stroked his erection with tight little twists.
He snarled. Loudly. “Stop saying that—merde.”
I pressed my thumb into his crown.
He jerked and hissed, his voice nothing but black. “And you’re on fire because you probably have a fever.” He grabbed my shoulders, his thumbs finding sore bruises. “Get off me. I’m not doing this tonight. You don’t want me. You’re high and—”
“No, I do want you. I’ve never wanted anyone more.”
His fingers squeezed, hurting me.
I sucked in a breath, hating that pain threaded with pleasure.
That pain only added to my pleasure.
That pain and pleasure somehow became a delightful, dirty thrill.
Memories of him calling me that nasty little M word clotted my mind.
Masochist.
After today, I didn’t think that was right.
I’d hated every moment. I’d panicked the moment Kyle started cutting me. I’d almost passed out from the agony as he shot me with those horrible paintballs.
I didn’t like pain.
In fact, I could safely say I loathed it and had had enough to last me a lifetime.
But…I liked him.
Oh God…
Memories from earlier tonight flooded me.
The way the drug made me swell with fondness and burn with friendship.
I didn’t just like him.
I love—
Whoa!
I couldn’t. Not possible. I could accept I lusted for him. I could tolerate appreciating him when he defended me, but love?
Nuh-uh. No way.
How could I love the man responsible for this tragedy?
I couldn’t.
Ever.
But…you can like him.
I paused, sinking back into need.
Yes, it was tolerable to like him.
I liked his particular brand of pain. Delivered with feelings and fears—his feelings and fears. I liked that each time he touched me, he left little souvenirs of his lust, bruises of his desire, and scars of his affection.
A tidal wave of want flowed far too swift and savage.
I trembled on his lap.
My skin burned with the need to be marked, gripped, squeezed, and autographed. Facets of myself unlocked in the dark, unfurling and embracing without scorn or worries.
Who cared about right and wrong, love or hate?
Right now, I wanted him.
I wanted him to deliver bliss as well as brutality.
I wanted him to kiss me, then bite me, caress me, then fuck me.
No, I wasn’t a masochist.
I was a Mercerchist…or a Wardchist… whichever surname he now went by.
I laughed under my breath.
I’m a Mercerchist.
It could be a new catch-phrase.
I could put it on a t-shirt.
He could tear that t-shirt off with his teeth—
Oh God.
Rolling my shoulders, I sat heavier on his straining erection. “It’s not a fever.” My vision became hazy, my eyelashes heavy. “I’m on fire.”
“You need antibiotics.”
“My blood is burning, Hen.”
“Stop that—”
“No, you stop it.” I moaned and fell onto him, burrowing my face into his strong neck.
With another bed-shaking growl, his hands slipped off my shoulders and landed on my hips. He went to shove me off—
“I had a dream,” I blurted.
He broke out in goosebumps as I kissed his hot skin.
“I had a dream you were inside me.”
His cock lurched in my hands. Words strangled from his self-imposed silence. “I-I’m not going to fuck you.”
“Why?” I nipped his jaw.
He choked. “I’ve already told you. You’re hurt.”
“That never stopped you before.”
He stiffened into stone.
He shut down.
Every connection between us sucked into a black void, and…I took matters into my own hands…literally.
Rising on my knees, I grabbed his erection and angled him up. Without second-guessing, I positioned myself over his crown and sank down.
“Putain!” (Fuck!) Henri snarled as I sheathed him completely.
I cried out as his long, thick length penetrated me in one slick glide.
The thick invasion of him felt so threatening, so comforting, so familiar.
Glimpses of my dream reappeared.
Henri thrusting into me in a meadow full of bluebells. Kissing me in a thicket of purple pansies. Fucking me in a field of red, red roses.
Every glade was the colour of a bruise. Every flower stained with pain.
We might’ve been surrounded by crushed and wounded things, but each pump inside me was pure pleasure, pure happiness, pure bliss.
My thighs stuck to his as I sank down the final inch.
My core pinched a little, not quite ready—despite my erotic dream—to fully welcome such an invasion.
Faint echoes of what my body had endured hinted maybe Henri was right, and I shouldn’t do this. The needling in my ribs was back. My bruises growing hot. But then his cock twitched inside me, and…I stopped thinking.