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 cried out, arching, grabbing the back of his head and pressing him to my core shamelessly.
“Take off my bottoms,” I urged him between desperate pants.
He chuckled darkly into me but, being the arsehole that he was, didn’t remove my knickers. Instead, he began nibbling me through them. Teasing with pressure and heat.
He knew it wasn’t enough to hurl me over the edge but was just sufficient to drive me mental. He trailed his tongue along my labia, then sucked my entire pussy into his mouth. Flicked my clit with the tip of his tongue.
Again.
And again.
Faster.
Harder.
Until he found the rhythm that made every muscle in my body clench.
Finally, he tugged my bottoms by one leg but continued teasing me through the soaked fabric.
“Tate, Tate, Tate,” I chanted, wishing I knew his real name. The boy who came before the man I hated but couldn’t get enough of. “Please,” I choked out. “Please, let me come.”
All he needed was to move my knickers to one side. To fill the emptiness inside me.
“You want to come?” His teeth grazed my soft flesh through my underwear.
“Yes,” I panted.
“What will you give me in return?”
“I…what do you want?”
“What I want is to come inside every hole in your body, nostrils and ears included. But since this is a little premature, I’ll settle for making you promise you’ll stop running.” He growled, clutching my outer thighs, spreading me wide. “Stop avoiding me. Stop fighting this.”
Every muscle in my body quivered. I wanted him beyond reason and logic.
“I’ll stop fighting this,” I croaked.
He fisted my knickers and slashed them off my body. “As soon as I tasted your cunt on my fingers, I knew I had to have my fucking fill.” His thumbs spread open my folds, and he plunged his tongue inside me like a feral animal, his nose massaging my clit as he devoured every drop of want I had for him. “That small sample just wasn’t enough.”
He pushed two fingers into me, the invasion sudden and rough, pumping into me gently as his mouth fastened around my clit, blowing air on the exposed little nub, a trick that made me feel full and shattered me into pieces.
I cried out, spasming. It wasn’t just the sensation that turned me on but also the way he ate me out. Like nothing more delicious in this world existed for him than me.
My muscles bunched, my toes curled, and stars detonated behind my eyelids.
It took me long seconds to come down from the high. When I allowed my eyes to flutter open, I glanced around the darkened room and realized I was…alone.
Tate slipped out of the room as soon as I climaxed, escaping like a vampire from sunlight.
I knew better than to think he went off for a wank. He was too refined for something like that, too frighteningly in control.
Carefully, I slid my tailbone off the desk and stood up. I was completely naked, my pj’s and knickers gone. He stole them, I realized, for his obsessive collection.
I gingerly made my way to the light switch and flicked it on. The scent of our sweat and my desire for him lingered in the air. Embarrassment swamped me. I let an ice-cold murderer play with my body. No, not just that—I actively sought him out.
I returned to the desk, glancing at the textbook I’d been pressed against. The one he’d been working on before I interrupted him. It was a bit smudged from the juices my body produced, some of the ink smeared, but I could still read it.
It was all complex equations. Solved in measured handwriting. And in the margins, in neat, cursive letters, so identical in size and flair they looked like a font, one word:
Nolan. Nolan. Nolan. Nolan. Nolan. Nolan. Nolan. Nolan.
Nolan. Nolan. Nolan. Nolan. Nolan. Nolan. Nolan. Nolan.
Nolan. Nolan. Nolan. Nolan. Nolan. Nolan. Nolan. Nolan.
Nolan. Nolan. Nolan. Nolan. Nolan. Nolan. Nolan. Nolan.
The name was written hundreds of times. Maybe thousands. Always identical. It looked…compulsive. Uncommonly precise.
Hypergraphia.
My heart beat faster. I rushed out to the hallway and made my way to the primary bedroom, only to find the doors closed. I rattled the door handles, unsurprised to find them locked.
“Tate!” I called.
No answer.
I slammed my fist onto the ancient wood. “Tate!”
Nothing.
This, I understood, was a statement.
My husband’s way of telling me I could have the orgasms and the private chefs, the lavish luxury of his lifestyle, his expert tongue, his thick cock.
But I could never, ever have his heart.
The question Tate left unanswered—what happened to the body in the panic room—answered itself rather promptly.
Ten hours after I found Tate leaning over him in the Hamptons, Nolan Duffy’s body appeared floating in Lake Michigan, of all places. Bloated and splotched but identifiable. Mafia deal gone wrong, the six o’clock news speculated.
Duffy had a black thorn sewn to his forehead and words engraved on his cheek with a sharp knife.