Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Don’t stop, don’t stop . . .
Drunk on her. Drunk on tequila. Drunk on this insane night and the way she’s made me feel something I didn’t think I had left in me.
I shift, adjust, give her every last inch I’ve got, watching her unravel beneath me. Her lips are soft. Her mouth opens for me like it always belonged to mine.
And then I grunt, hoarsely—the words slip out before I can stop them: “I think I love you.”
They slip out like a secret, hot against her throat as I bury my face there.
She gasps—shudders—and her hips roll up to meet mine with more urgency. Then her fingers thread through my hair, tugging until I look at her, eyes glassy, gorgeous, completely undone.
They lock onto mine. “I love you too.”
I kiss her hard.
Hungry.
We move faster, rougher, caught in the surge of everything we can’t say—so we say it with our bodies instead. With every thrust. Every kiss. Every breathless moan that spills between us.
Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck . . .
When I come, my body jerks, my breath catching in my throat as everything inside me rushes forward in one tidal wave of sensation. I bury my face in her neck, her skin damp and warm and smelling like fresh air and sweat and tequila and her.
She cries out my name, her legs tightening around me as her own climax crashes over her, pulling me under with her. We cling. We shake. We don’t let go.
The world is a blur.
The dock. The moonlight. The water lapping at our feet.
I can’t stop touching her.
Still want more . . .
Chapter 17
Annabelle
The first thing I register is the pain.
A dull, throbbing ache pulsing at my temples like a slow, rhythmic drum. My mouth feels like sandpaper, and I’m 90 percent sure something died on my tongue overnight. Maybe tequila. Maybe my dignity.
The second thing I register?
Warmth. A solid, delicious source of it pressed against my back.
His hand.
Low on my stomach. Fingers splayed just under the hem of the shirt I don’t remember putting on—his shirt, based on the size, the worn fabric, and the faint whiff of cologne clinging to it.
His thumb strokes my skin. Slowly. Gently. Thoughtfully.
Mmm . . .
Suddenly the ache in my head doesn’t feel quite so pressing.
My eyes crack open, vision blurry and unfocused, the morning light bleeding around the edges of the curtains. The sheets smell like lake air and cedar and him, and when I shift slightly, our legs brush. My bare thigh slung over his.
We’re tangled. Completely, utterly tangled.
Last night comes flooding back in hazy, disjointed flashes: The dancing.
The laughing.
Tequila.
Pastor Dan.
Callum’s hands.
His mouth.
The dock.
Cousin Evy.
I squeeze my eyes shut, groaning softly.
“Headache?” His voice is low and gravelly next to my ear. Sleepy and sexy and so deliciously deeper in the morning . . .
“Mm,” I manage, not trusting myself with actual words.
He shifts closer, his nose brushing my shoulder as he kisses it, his hand still drawing slow, lazy circles across my skin. I should move. I should sit up. I should find some water and pretend to be a normal, functioning human.
Instead, I melt deeper into the mattress, into him.
“Want me to get you aspirin?” he murmurs.
I turn just enough to peek at him over my shoulder. His hair is a mess, dark strands curling boyishly over his forehead. Ugh.
“You’re not hungover?” I croak out skeptically.
He grins, perfectly normal looking, one side of his mouth lifting like he’s proud. “Scottish constitution.”
I roll onto my back with a groan. “You are so annoying.”
Those large hands of his begin rubbing my shoulders, thumbs pressing into the base of my neck, kneading and working my tight muscles.
“Yes. More,” I groan, eyelashes fluttering. “Keep doing that and I might actually forgive you for not being as miserable as I am.”
His low chuckle has me tingling despite my pounding temples. I crack one eye open to glare at him. “How are you so chipper? We drank a lot last night.”
“Because I was smart enough to down two glasses of water before bed.”
“Where was my water?”
He rubs slow, deliberate circles along the small of my back now. “Relax—I had you drinking it too.”
“Oh.” I blink again. “I don’t remember that.”
His hand slips under the hem of his T-shirt that I’m wearing, tracing lazy patterns on my hip bone that soon have me squirming. “You’re too cute when you’re hungover.”
“You’re too horny when you’re hungover.”
Maverick shrugs, nuzzling his nose into the crook of my neck. “Guess I am.” His hand eases its way to my front side . . . glides up my stomach . . . cups my boob. “How are you wearing clothes?”
His guess is as good as mine.
“I want to look at your tits,” he murmurs. “Get naked—you won’t have to do any of the work.”
Promises, promises . . .