Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 68048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
He tugged my head back to face him, but I kept my eyes shut.
So childish.
“Open your eyes.”
The truth of me, the painful truth under all my work of the last five years, was that I couldn’t resist him. I never could. It’s why I’d had to run. Because if I’d stayed I would have let him convince me of whatever it was he wanted me to believe.
My eyelids fluttered open and his face was there, filling everything I saw. It was him and only him.
“There hasn’t been anyone else for me, either,” he said. “Not since you left.”
I shook my head, pulling my own hair. “I don’t believe you.”
“No lies, remember? Your rules.” I swallowed and looked at him, taking in every feature on his handsome face. “No one,” he assured me. He leaned into my face and whispered it against my skin. “No one but you, Ronnie.”
It was too much, an absolute overload, and I kissed him. I kissed him to bring back the bliss. I kissed him to stop talking. So I could stop thinking.
I kissed him and I kissed him and I kissed him until he wrapped those arms around me and pulled me against his body and I was hungry again.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes. More,” I moaned. “More.”
He shoved my sweater off my shoulders and I started to lift his shirt but he stopped me, holding my hand still in one of his while the other slipped under the cream shell I wore under my sweater. Instinctively I sucked in my stomach, aware that how I was sitting made my belly roll. And then I thought fuck it. This was me. His fingers found the edge of my bra. No lace, just plain pink cotton.
And that was me, too.
Truly, really and truly, I hadn’t thought the evening would end with Clayton’s hand up my shirt. But here we were, me in my ugliest underwear and him pulling it down under my breast, his fingers finding my nipple.
He remembered. He remembered every way I liked to be touched. The pressure and release. The rough touch with the soft finish. But it was more this time. Wilder. The rough rougher.
When he dropped my hand, I wasted no time and clutched at his belt, pulling the end free from the loop.
“No,” he said.
“What?”
“You.”
His hand dropped from my breast to the top of my jeans. I clamped my legs shut.
“Ronnie,” he breathed. “Let me. Let me make you feel good.”
Oh, God. The fucking magic of those words.
I would regret this. I knew I would. This moment of pleasure would bring me nothing but pain later. But to have some sweet with all the bitter I’d been living with lately was impossible to refuse.
I opened my legs. I fumbled with my own belt and zipper and then shimmied my pants down under my hips. My cotton hipster underwear went down with it.
“Yes,” I said and leaned back. My hands shoved aside what was left of our dinner. “Make me feel good, Clayton.”
His grin was sex. It was devilment and orgasms and the dark thrilling knowledge he had of me. And then his hand cupped me. The hot, wet center of me.
“Like I used to?” he breathed.
“Do you remember?”
He pressed his lips to the spot just under my ear. I shuddered. Shivered. Before Clayton I’d had brief, fumbling experiences with men going down on me. Mostly it just seemed uncomfortable. Far too intimate. But then I met Clayton and he blew my mind. And I realized the difference between him and those other men.
Clayton loved going down on me. He wasn’t careful or hesitant. He was all-in—like he couldn’t get enough of me—and it felt so good.
“Do I remember?” he whispered there against my skin. “I have dreamt of you. So many nights. I wake up hot and shaking. My cock in my hand, your name in my mouth.”
I shook my head, trying to deny those words. Trying to deny that he’d missed me, too. Wanted me.
“Truth,” he said. “Your rules.”
No, my rules were no lies. The truth seems remarkably different than that. So much more dangerous than that.
“Are you saying you didn’t dream of me?” he asked. I didn’t answer because this truth game was too risky. He pulled his hand away.
“What?” I gasped, cold where his hand made me so hot.
“Tell me.”
“Of course,” I snapped, frustration a fist in the center of my body. Jesus. I just wanted to come. “Of course, I dreamt of you. Nightmares. Wet dreams. Everything in between. After some dreams I woke up crying. Some were so happy the realization that it was just a dream was heartbreaking all over again.”
I didn’t mean to say all of this. And I didn’t want to say it. I was ready to give him power over my body. But this was too much.