Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
He fucks me like a madman. Every thrust slams the headboard against the wall, and the sound it makes—bang, bang, bang—echoes around the room. My wild hair falls like a curtain over my eyes until he gathers it in one fist and pulls my head back, exposing my throat for him to nibble on my ear.
“Seth…” I gasp, but it’s not really a word, just a sound. His other hand leaves my wrists and clamps around my hip, squeezing hard enough to bruise. I don’t care. I want him to mark me. I want to remember this every time I sit down for a week.
“You like that?” he growls, teeth on my shoulder.
“Yes,” I scream into the soft bedding.
He moves faster, the bed shaking under us, my breasts mashed into the pillow, his cock splitting me open with every thrust. My body lights up, nerves sparking from the base of my skull all the way to the tips of my toes. I come hard, grinding back against him, hips bucking so he loses rhythm and nearly slides out of me.
He laughs, a dark sound, and slams back in. This time, he’s relentless, making sure to hold nothing back. I can feel him getting close, balls tightening, cock twitching inside me. He grabs my hair tighter and bites my neck, just hard enough to leave a mark.
When he comes with a low roar, emptying himself deep inside me until it’s dripping down my thigh, he stays like that. His body holds me down, his panting breath rough and uneven.
The only sound in the room is our gasping and the AC kicking on. After a minute, he lets go of my hair and collapses onto the bed, dragging me with him so I’m half on top of his chest.
We don’t say anything for a while. He traces circles on my back, fingers gentle now, almost apologetic.
When I finally have enough breath to talk, I say, “I like how you say good morning.”
He laughs, and it’s not a nice sound. It’s raw, real, and a little desperate. “I’m fucking glad,” he admits. “I plan to do it again as soon as my cock recovers.”
“Sounds like a plan to me,” I mumble as I snuggle closer to his hot, muscular body.
We doze for an hour in the cratered aftermath, and I’m starting to think my crappy luck has taken a turn. Like maybe we can just wake up every day in a tangle of limbs and sweat, trading smartass comments, rough kisses, and hot, bed-shaking sex.
But before any of that can happen, I have to let Seth in on my little secret.
"I need to tell you something," I say before I'm able to chicken out. The words hang in the air like smoke from a just-blown-out candle, sucking all the oxygen from the sunlit bedroom.
He props himself up on one muscular forearm, his sleep-tousled hair falling across his forehead as his expression shifts from languid satisfaction to sharp-eyed attention. "Nothing good ever starts with those words."
"Well," I say, my voice trembling. "I should've told you who I am before now." My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape. "My full name is Francesca Aliénor Foxworth."
He blinks. Once. Twice. His square jaw tenses, the muscle in his cheek jumping beneath his morning stubble.
"You mean, like—" He trails off, those piercing cobalt eyes scanning my face for any hint of a joke, his full lips parting slightly.
I nod, twisting the Egyptian cotton sheet between my fingers. "My dad is Charles W. Foxworth, the current Governor of Texas, and my older brother is Benjamin Foxworth, the U.S. Senator."
He whistles low, the sound cutting through the heavy silence. "I knew you looked familiar," he mutters, rubbing both calloused hands over his face, dragging the skin down. "Fucking hell." He sits up fully, the pearl-white sheets pooling around his narrow waist, revealing the sculpted ridges of his abdomen. For the first time since I met him beside my smoking Fiat, Seth looks genuinely shocked, his usual confidence cracked like a windshield. "I… did not see that coming."
"It's not who I am," I blurt out, words tumbling from my lips like marbles from an overturned jar. "I don't want to be just the Foxworth daughter with the perfect smile and the designer wardrobe." I got tired of that title years ago, of being a prop in family photos. "I work my own jobs, pay my own way. I don't touch the trust fund. I don't do charity galas where everyone whispers behind crystal champagne flutes. I just—" I run out of words, my throat closing like a fist as I watch his expression, hoping I haven't already blown my chance with the only man who's ever made me feel like more than a political accessory.
He stares at the eggshell-colored wall, jaw clenched so hard I hear the faint crackle of his molars grinding together like tectonic plates shifting beneath the earth. Then he turns, and those storm-blue eyes find mine, but where I expected lightning, I find only the calm after rain.