Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 97875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Already, her eyes were glassy, her tits rising and shuddering back down in the neckline of her tank top. “I can ask. Demand.”
“That’s right.” Never breaking eye contact, he planted his lips on the side of her neck, suctioning, razing his teeth and lapping at the spot almost crudely, all while his hand kept a firm grip on her hair. In charge of her, yeah. In charge of the situation, most definitely. But most importantly, impressing on her that she had a right to speak out loud. To express what she needed.
Express it with me.
Temporarily.
Robbie fought through the steep drop of his stomach. “Do you like that?”
“Yes,” she said, lips barely moving. “Yeah, I like it.”
“Then ask for more.”
“More,” she gasped, her mouth falling wide when he bit the spot that connected her shoulder and neck, raking his teeth up to her ear and breathing hard there. Yanking her hips up and tighter to his lap, looking her in the eye while he humped her once, twice, three times, rattling the dresser. “More, more, more,” she said, teeth chattering.
Robbie whirled Skylar around to face him, unsurprised when her thighs wound around his waist like vines around a pole, their frenzied mouths meeting to fuck, tongues and lips and teeth clashing in the most sensual battle, his hands finding and massaging her juicy ass, squeezing until she whimpered and let her head fall back, giving him her neck again, shaking in his arms when he attacked it, laving and sucking and kissing.
“That’s what you need, isn’t it?” He cracked his palm against the right cheek of her backside, baring his teeth against her mouth as she gasped. “Yeah, it is. Tell me that college girl pussy isn’t getting wet right now.” Her thigh muscles rippled around him, her stomach hollowing, lust and censure warring in her eyes, though lust was clearly winning. “That’s how it is, Skylar. I talk fucking dirty.”
“I like it,” she managed.
“I know you like it or you wouldn’t be rubbing your cunt on my lap.”
“Robbie.”
He pressed a wicked grin against her mouth, snagging a hard kiss. “If only it was Thursday, right? I’d have your knees over my fucking shoulders by now.”
God. God.
This wasn’t making out. This was more.
Everything between them felt like more.
He walked her backward until he had her flattened against the door, his hips pumping once out of pure desperation to connect to her, to Skylar, to imprint her body with his, to leave a fucking mark. To own her. Give her ownership over him—
No. No, she didn’t want that. You’re screwing yourself, Corrigan.
Slow down, slow down, slow down.
“Slow down,” he said thickly against her mouth. “Too fast. Too much.”
I’m at the point of no return.
“Please keep kissing me.”
Fuck it. A little longer.
“Okay, baby. Okay.” A slanting of lips, followed by the slowest, most perfect twist of hard on soft, an unbelievable rush of surprise and pleasure inside of him over how they anticipated each other’s movements, rough for rough, savoring for savoring. The taste and texture and scent of her broke into his brain like a burglar and ransacked the place, his heart thumping crazily in his rib cage. I could kiss you for the rest of my life.
That was the thought that had Robbie breaking away, struggling for breath.
Struggling not to look at her and start their engines again, mauling her mouth until tomorrow came and went, Robbie ordered himself to let her down carefully, both of them panting as he backed up, putting distance between them that he hated as much as he needed, purely for his own self-preservation.
“That’s enough . . . for now.”
She blew a piece of hair out of her face and his heart turned over. “Huh.”
Leaving Skylar breathing hard, dazed and flushed against the door, was the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life, including NHL training camp, but he managed to pick up his bag and get out the door with his heart still inside of his chest.
“Bye, Skylar,” he rasped, unable to resist kissing her temple on the way into the hall.
“Bye, Robbie.”
It only took him half a mile to realize he’d been dead wrong. His heart—and apparently all his common sense—had been left behind in Rhode Island.
What the hell did he do now?
Chapter Eighteen
Skylar parted the hanging beads leading into the underground burlesque club, a swanky, swoony, old-fashioned melody guiding her toward the performance area. The Gilded Garden was smoky, but not from cigarettes. The fog machine positioned at the entrance to the club was Skylar’s favorite of Eve’s ideas. I want people to feel like they’re walking through a screen and stepping back into the past.
You definitely nailed it, Eve.
As soon as Skylar emerged from the fog, the lights turned a citrine blue, and she was surrounded by Roaring Twenties decor. Black-and-white pictures of performers in various stages of near undress hung along the hallway walls, showcased by golden art deco frames. The entire ceiling was made up of pink feather plumes that hung down, close enough to tickle Skylar’s forehead if she went up on her toes. A familiar brassy and crystal chandelier hung at the end of the hallway, beckoning customers forward, along with the sensual hibiscus fragrance, to the mouth of the club where the stage and tables were nestled into the sapphire darkness.