Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 142050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
Boots.
She had short-stack boots on.
Shifting to her feet, he made fast work of her laces, and then the treads were off along with her jeans and her socks—
“Jesus, even your feet are perfect.”
He started at her ankles, sweeping his palms up the insides of her legs. When he got to her knees, he parted them—annnnnd had to take a little breather. The sight of her pink silk panties wedged into her core undid him to such an extent, he had to pause to lower his head and think of…
Well, anything else than what he was about to do.
Too bad he didn’t actually know a goddamn thing about golf.
“What’s wrong,” she whispered.
“You’re… I can’t even think.”
“Then take a page out of my book—and don’t. Just feel.”
Dev felt a sound rise out of his chest and vibrate up his throat. As whatever the fuck it was breached his lips, he was very sure he’d never heard anything like it come out of him before.
“Oh, I’m feeling something,” he muttered.
Stretching her leg up, he urged the other out to the side so her foot slipped off the sofa and landed on the nice wall-to-wall carpeting. As he went down, he reminded himself that good things come to those who wait—so he did what he could to linger with his lips on the inside of her thigh, only inching upward while every part of him just wanted to dive right in on her. Bringing his hands to the lace piping on the panties’ top edge, he started to pull them—
With a smooth move, Lyric sat up and shoved the things down at the same time, yanking the undies under her ass.
He groaned as she lay back down, that shirt of hers still on her shoulders but fallen completely free of her breasts, her bra cups down by her sides, now her panties halfway to her knees.
And hey, he could help with that last one. He took them the rest of the way.
And then just stared at the glistening core of her.
There was absolutely no going back. He spread her wide and led with his tongue, licking upward—
As she cried out, her spine jacked up and her breasts splayed out, her nipples taut and beautiful as the flesh bounced. With her blond hair falling to the floor, and her lithe body undulating with sexual need, she was the single most compelling thing he’d ever seen—and then there was the knowledge that he had done this to her. She wanted… him.
The feeling was more than mutual, he thought as he went in her sex again.
She was hot and wet, and he made her wetter as he worshipped her exactly where she deserved to be treated so well. And he knew she was getting close to another orgasm by the way she panted and strained, her hands gripping the cushions under her, one of the throw pillows flipping off the arm of the couch.
He watched it all, looking over her belly, and between her breasts that moved to the beat of her rapid breaths. He couldn’t see anything of her face. She had her head craned back, only the graceful rise of her chin showing, but her throat was as gorgeous as the rest of her.
Dev kept going, even after she came for him, right against his fucking face.
He loved the taste of her.
And the sounds she made.
Actually, he could do all of this for an eternity…
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The aristocrat Whestmorel stood facing a wintery lake view, his back to the roaring fire in the hearth across his safe house’s study, his feet in monogrammed slippers, a glass of bourbon in his hand. Courtesy of the darkened room, he could readily see out across the vista he had come to love. Though he was a city male at heart, and very fond of the things that urban living could provide such as good food, good company, and opportunities for acquisition and financial appreciation, there was something to be said for the seclusion and privacy of wilderness.
Especially when you were being hunted by the Black Dagger Brotherhood.
The floor-to-ceiling windows before him were coated on their exteriors so no one could see inside his Adirondack retreat, and the panes were also thick enough to withstand a bullet. Well, mostly thick enough. During the installation of this expanse of glass, the contractor had referred to things as “bullet-resistant,” not “bulletproof,” and one had to admit that the latter was in fact far more desirable. At the time, however, he had been more concerned with climate control for his bourbon collection than protecting his body from lead projectiles.
His ambitions had not been so clearly formed two years ago.
Lifting his rocks glass to his lips, he took a sip. The Pappy 25-Year was always a little oaky for him, but it was rare and it was an indulgence.