Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 129676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 648(@200wpm)___ 519(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 648(@200wpm)___ 519(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
I rolled to the edge of the bed, about to plant my feet on the floor, when I noticed a large, dark shadow draped across it. I squinted. It looked like a piece of furniture, or maybe…
Tate.
It was my husband. He was sleeping on the floor next to my bed. But…why?
Because you told him you wanted to sleep alone, and he respected that, but he also didn’t want to be away from you.
My heart cracked in two, warmth flooding my chest. Tatum Blackthorn, the most formidable man in all of New York, was curled into a fetal position on the floor by my bed, like a gentle Great Dane protecting its owner.
Reaching down, I placed my palm on his shoulder so not to startle him. Tate was a light sleeper.
He rolled over and blinked up to me in the darkness.
“Do you, uh, want me to leave?” His voice was thick and raspy. “I thought it was okay, since I’m not technically in your bed.”
“No,” I said softly. “I was just about to get myself something to eat. Come to bed. I’ll join you in a bit.”
He straightened, sitting up with his back pressed against the nightstand. “What do you want? I’ll bring it to you.”
My knee-jerk reaction was to tell him I could do things for myself. But I knew Tate derived pleasure from doing things for me. It made him feel better. He could never love me, but he could take care of me.
“You know, what I’d really like is beans on toast. I have a few Heinz cans in the pantry.”
“Stay here.” He scurried out of the room, and I sat up against the headboard, praying that he wouldn’t burn down the kitchen. Tate wasn’t what I called a natural nurturer.
He came back fifteen minutes later with two charred pieces of bread, unevenly warmed beans, and a glass bottle of Diet Coke. I thanked him and ate in my bed. He took a seat on the edge, watching me. I turned on a bedside lamp.
“I’ll make things right with Callaghan,” he said out of nowhere. “I’ll stop the bloodshed. I’ll seek therapy. I’ll go on meds. I’ll do anything.” He paused. “Just please don’t leave.”
I put the burnt toast back on the tray. I’d already made up my mind to stay. I would take the cheap, sugar substitute for love he offered me—the synthetic sweetener—if it meant being by his side.
Cal and Dylan were right. Tate and I had always been inevitable.
I put the tray on the nightstand and crept forward on my knees to where he sat. He watched me through half-lidded eyes. I pressed my lips to his collarbone, then kissed my way down his bare torso. I wanted warm flesh against my own, to feel his heartbeat, the vitality of his nimble muscles. I wanted to remind myself I was still alive and that I had much to live for.
His black joggers tented, his cock jerking against the fabric, demanding to be freed. I tugged his waistband and bent down to give it a lick, root to tip. He threw his head back, hissing.
“I want you to fuck me so hard and so dirty that I forget my own name,” I rasped against his velvety shaft, enjoying the goose bumps that chased one another to the heat of my breath against his muscular thighs. My lips skimmed back up his abs, catching his lips. “I want you to treat me like a nobody,” I murmured as he gobbled down my voice. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I spoke.
He gave me a shove, pinning me down to the mattress. I gasped as he pulled at the knot on my robe. His eyes glazed over, empty and hard.
He was going to deliver on my request. First, because he always fucked me rough. But also because he never denied me anything I’d requested from him.
After unknotting my robe, he flicked it open so I was bare in front of him, then scooped up my wrists, pinning them against the headboard. He shoved his face in mine, holding my wrists tight in one hand, taking his cock in the other, angling it between my legs.
Then he froze completely. “You’re crying.”
“Ignore it.” I rolled my hips. My center met his throbbing, hard cock.
“Can’t.” His hold on my wrists loosened. He cupped my face instead. Firmly but gently.
“My tears have nothing to do with sex,” I argued. “I want—”
“I can’t treat you like a whore,” he growled in my face. “Even if I wanted to.”
I huffed. “You always fuck me raw.”
“Yes, and tomorrow, I can still fuck you like a whore if that’s what you want.” He kicked his pants down roughly, crushing me under his weight. “But tonight, I’m going to make love to you. Whether you like it or not. Because that’s what you need.”