Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
My breasts spring free, heavy and aching, my nipples hard, begging to be touched and tasted.
“Fuck,” he curses, his eyes glued right to them. “Sorry. That’s all I seem to be able to say.”
“It’s alright.”
“It’s not very classy.”
“I don’t need classy. I just need you.”
That seems to unlock something inside him. Or unleash.
Either way, he’s ripping off his own T-shirt and giving me an insane view of his chiseled abs, his killer man V, the bulging muscles in his shoulders and arms, his pecs with his tight brown nipples, and all his delicious veins. He’s completely hairless. I know he gets it waxed off. I know a lot of intimate things. But it doesn’t make him less attractive. Knowing them is sweet. It’s like being entrusted with his secrets.
He strips off his leather pants, tugging and cursing at them under his breath. My shorts come off so much easier. I undo the button and zipper, and they fall down my legs.
I should be stopping this, not mewling, whimpering, and arching my back like I’m riding one massive hormonal wave that I have zero control over. But then there’s all the buts.
But he’s a great kisser.
But he smells like leather and bergamot, a little bit of oranges, almonds, and the sugary breakfast cereal he eats every single morning without fail.
But his hair is just starting to spring back from the wig, and since it was damp under there, it’s now curling in the most adorable way.
But his eyes are the most alluring green. Mint in a rolling meadow of wild grass.
But he’s beautiful the way everyone knows, and the ways they don’t. He doesn’t make country music, but it’s still just the chords and the truth for him.
But he’s fun and unpredictable. He dresses in leather pants, a wig, and a fake beard just to come and apologize.
But he’s a great, great kisser with ridiculously kissable lips, and he tastes like mint and redemption. AND the red leather pants, AND his soft curly hair, and those green eyes, and all of both our histories crashing right into this hurricane of a moment.
He’s there, getting on his knees, gliding me around to face the island, and kissing along the insides of my thighs, so near to my yellow lace panties. All I can do is throw my head back, close my eyes, and pray this moment never ends.
If there were ever one moment that could be paused and framed, I’d like this to be it.
Minus my panty choice. They’re not a nice yellow. Or a nice lace. They’re more like the last thing I had in my drawer because I still haven’t unpacked my bags from the tour bus, even though it’s been a week.
Denial? Probably. Wounded, screaming, horrible pain that I couldn’t acknowledge? Unpacking my bags feeling very much like I’m unpacking all that? Probably. Probably all of that.
“Jack,” I whimper, twisting my fingers through his soft hair, barely hanging on already. “You’re going to destroy me.”
“Jack?” He looks up at me, a half smile of amusement tilting his lips.
God. Those. Lips.
They’re going to destroy me.
“Do you prefer Jackson?”
“I prefer whatever you want to call me. No one calls me Jack.”
“I know.”
“No one calls me Jackson either. I hate it.”
“I know that too.”
“Nothing makes me want to morph into a monkey and fling poop more than that.”
I giggle then hiccup-gasp as his hand slides between my legs and glides up my thigh. He dips his head in close, kissing where his hand just touched and heightening my anticipation so wildly that there isn’t an inch of my skin left without goosebumps.
“You’re so beautiful,” he croons. It’s the same tone he uses for singing. The voice that drives everyone wild. But it’s still his voice. It’s not something he puts on. “I love the way you smell.”
I flush deeply, my toes curling. I just had his cock down my throat and my nose nestled right into him before that, but it’s different when he does it to me. It makes me shy.
When he nudges my thighs wider, I let him spread me open, though. I rest my feet on his shoulders and then edge them down his back when he leans closer. Closer, so much closer, until his hot breath fans over my overheated skin, though his still feels warmer.
Nothing is hotter than his mouth. Literally. Figuratively. All the ways.
He licks me right over the soaked lace, tracing a path to my clit. He knows exactly what he’s doing, angling his chin down so that while he flicks his tongue over my sensitive nerves, his skin rasps over the rest of me, pressing the lace down hard. I didn’t know lace could be so abrasive. I didn’t know I could hate it for being in the way so badly.
He shifts his mouth, pulling it away before balling my panties up in his hand. But he doesn’t tear them off or away. He twists them, trapping my clit while freeing almost all of the rest of me. His tongue traces down my seam, and then he latches his mouth there and eats at me like he’s been waiting an eternity for exactly this moment. He doesn’t tease me. He devours me.