Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 109299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
It’s not slow and languid, like I expected. It’s not a middle-of-the-night tender spooning, with gentle kisses. It’s passionate and deep. It’s him taking me and showing me how much he needs me.
This kind of sex is not at all what I expected when I walked in the door tonight. But then again, everything about this man has surprised me, from his taste in music, to his smart mouth, to his big and scarred heart.
His arms are like ropes, binding me to him, keeping me in his inescapable grasp as he fucks me, his mouth skimming over my neck the whole time. “Fucking love this,” he grits out against my skin.
Flesh slaps against flesh. Sweat-slicked skin slides against sweat-slicked skin. We’re hot and sweaty and desperate, and I feel like I’m on the verge of release with every punishing thrust.
But there’s one more thing I want. We’ve tried flowers and headbands and ribbons. The man is good with his hands though. Great, actually. I crane my neck and look back at him, at the restraint in his features, the clench of his jaw coupled with the fire in his eyes. “In San Francisco? When I thought you were at the hotel room door?”
He slows his hips, concern briefly flickering across his irises. “Yes?”
“I opened it and said spank me.” It feels so good to finally say that. To let him know I wanted to explore my desires with him. “I’ve never said that to anyone,” I blurt out, suddenly confessing the depth of my desires.
His cock slides deeper, and the sound he makes is the hottest thing I’ve ever heard. “You can have anything with me,” he says, sounding as desperate as I feel. “Want it now, sweetheart?”
“So much.”
He lifts a hand and slaps it on the outside of my ass. The sharp sting radiates through me, then blurs into pleasure.
“More?”
“Yes. Please,” I say.
Another smack. Another cry from me. Then, my world tunnels to these sensations—his hand smacking my ass, the bite that spirals through me, the hot rush of pleasure in my core.
Then this—the giving in, as I fall to pieces in his arms one more time, sinking into blissful oblivion. He follows me there with a powerful thrust, then grunts, growls, murmurs.
And quietly kisses me.
Sometime later, I don’t know when, he’s kissing my hair, whispering sweet nothings of praise, then saying, “Next time I’m going to use that cat toy on you.”
“Only after I watch you fold the sheets and make the bed.”
“Deal.”
I feel shiny inside and out from the words next time. From the easy promise in them. From the possibility of all our next times.
A little later, after we straighten up, he pulls on clothes and fetches my dog from the house. Through the window, I spot Banks taking Hudson for a quick midnight stroll through the lavender bushes. The sight of that man walking my pooch makes my heart beat far too fast.
When he returns, he settles Hudson onto the floor and comes back to bed.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “I seriously appreciate your dog-walking skills.” I pause, then add, “Among others.”
“You’re welcome.” He doesn’t ask for anything in return. I get the sense he gives to give. It’s in his nature, these little acts of service. Gently, he turns me around so I’m facing away from him. He rubs my neck, kneading the usual sore spots. Yeah, it’s definitely in his nature.
“Like this skill too,” I say, relaxing into his touch.
“Good.” He sounds happy. Maybe that’s what he gets out of these little gestures. They make him happy too—to be able to give and know it’s received. So I happily take, knowing it’s working for both of us.
A few minutes later, he kisses the back of my neck, then stops rubbing. With a sigh, he says, “I still regret not coming to your hotel room.”
“Don’t,” I say.
“But I do. If I had, maybe we could have started sooner.”
Started, not stopped.
He wraps his arms around me, like we’re not stopping whatever this is becoming—little gestures and big feelings.
38
HER TURN
RIPLEY
“I knew it wasn’t her.”
The humble brag comes from Grandma the next day as the three of us settle into a table at the restaurant at The Ladybug Inn.
Haven’s call time isn’t till this afternoon, so we stole away for a girls’ breakfast like old times, when Grandma used to take us here once a month back when we were in high school. Well, as long as we brought home good grades and excellent attendance.
Haven knits her brow at the older woman. “How did you know there’s a pic?”
Amused, Grandma shakes her head. “Send my girls out of the nest, and they forget all about me.”
Haven’s mouth falls open in awareness. “You’re right. I almost forgot about Daisy’s penchant for gossip. She told you?”
Grandma nods. Her bestie loves gossip, so I’m guessing she showed Grandma the pic of Haven, New Chris, and the director from Page Six this morning.