Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
I twist, slapping one hand against his chest, his face when I can reach it, kicking my legs as much as I am able and as my vision begins to fade along the edges, he finally blinks.
He looks at me for a long minute, gives a shake of his head, loosens his grip around my throat. I cough, rub my throat. In the next instant, he’s lying on top of me, some of his weight on one of his elbows, the arm without the bandage on his shoulder. But much of his body is on me as he looks down, eyebrows furrowed, gaze dark so the green is only a thin circle around his dilated pupil.
It feels good to have him like this. The weight of him crushing me feels strangely safe even as it stokes those feelings of earlier, as if fanning the flames of a building fire inside my center.
He searches my eyes, pushes my hair back from my forehead, touches my cheek. The expression on his face is unreadable. He brings one big hand to the back of my head, cupping it, and it all happens so fast. He leans closer, without a moment’s hesitation, and his mouth closes over mine.
It’s not a kiss. It’s a devouring. A hungry, starved beast feasting.
My mouth opens for him. I taste him, feel the intensity of him. His muscular, hard body, the weight, the heat of our kiss. His tongue in my mouth, mine meeting it. It’s not just a kiss. It’s more.
It’s everything.
He grinds his hips against mine and I moan at the sensations his hard cock pressing against me through his jeans sends through me. He shoves my sweater up roughly to press himself against me, against my clit. Bare chest against bare chest.
My nipples harden and he draws back, watching me as he grinds his hips. His breath is short, like mine. And that hand on the back of my head shifting now as he closes his mouth over mine again, kissing me like he’s starved. That hand moves between us, and he lifts himself up just a little, just enough to slip his fingers inside my panties.
I tense for a moment. He senses it. But this feels different than ever before. It feels good. And when he closes his fingers around my sex, I let out a sigh, a deep, guttural sound, an exhale contained for too long. His hand is rough and big and so good. So, so good.
He draws back to watch me, and I bite my lip as his thumb moves over my clit. I glance between my open legs at the thick length of his erection pressed against his jeans.
Tension builds inside me, something tightening, tightening, being rung out. I can’t catch my breath as he moves his fingers over me, inside me.
I watch him, too, and this feeling isn’t just between my legs. It’s spreading through me, from my core out through my stomach, my chest, arms and legs.
“Oh, God,” I mutter.
He kisses me again like he’ll swallow my words, my breath. Like he’ll have it all. And all I can do is open my mouth to let him. To give it to him.
I moan into his mouth as he pushes a finger inside me once, twice, then draws it out, smears my arousal over my clit. When I arch my back, his touch takes me over the edge, and I come undone. He watches me and I can’t look away, not when he’s looking at me like this. Not when I’m feeling this thing. This pure, electrifying sensation.
Not when I’m coming for him.
I’m breathless when it’s over and my body goes slack as he draws his hand out of my panties. He doesn’t speak, just looks at me. But then something changes. He blinks hard. His forehead wrinkles and after a very long moment, he shifts his gaze away.
“Fuck.”
He pushes off me, stumbles from the bed. Glances back once before taking two steps away and needing to grab the edge of a nearby chair to stay upright.
“Fuck!” he roars.
I sit, pulling the blankets up, my heart racing, a panic replacing that euphoria of moments ago. That strange calm I barely registered. The rightness of things.
Boots rush down the hall toward the bedroom and the door slams against the wall, as Matthaeus and another man stand in the doorway. They look at him, then at me, then back.
Matthaeus rushes to Dante. “Help me get him back in the bed!” he orders the soldier.
I scoot out of the bed as they haul him back into it. Dante is fighting them like he doesn’t recognize them. Matthaeus curses when they finally hold him down enough that he can feel Dante’s forehead.
“Keep him down,” he tells the other man who has a knee on Dante’s chest and his hands on his shoulders. I can see the bad one is bleeding again.