Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 54056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 270(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 270(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
“I…Oh my god, Archer,” I moan, writhing as he wraps his lips around my nipple, sucking hard.
“Christ, I could do this all day,” he mutters before suddenly lifting me away from the fridge.
I gasp, clinging to his broad shoulders as he stalks across the kitchen like I don’t weigh anything at all. Every step he takes has his erection grinding against my clit, the pressure hitting right where I need it.
“Archer!”
“You going to come all over me already, baby?” His raspy chuckle is my undoing. Or maybe it’s his hands on my body like he owns it. I don’t know. But I fall forward, burying my face in his throat. My teeth catch his skin as I shatter like glass, splintering apart.
“That’s it,” he growls, rocking me against him. “Just keep coming, little bird.”
Like I have a choice when he’s all over me, implacable and intense and so damn sexy. I shake and writhe, chanting his name like a freaking prayer. And maybe it is because I don’t want this to end. I don’t want to give him up. I want whatever this is between us to be real and possible and not something that has to end. Please, baby Jesus? Please?
My back lands against a bed, Archer falling on top of me. He holds his weight off me as if to keep from crushing me, but he doesn’t let me go. He’s pressed to me in one long, delicious line, pinning me beneath him.
“Throw the pills out, wife,” he growls, pulling back to meet my gaze. His eyes are dark, his expression even darker. Full of possession and command, as if he can will me into surrendering to him.
“N-not pills,” I gasp.
“IUD?”
“Patch.”
The way he smirks at me… God, if I live to one hundred, that damn smirk will be emblazoned on my memory like a formative event.
“Guess I’ll take care of it myself then,” he murmurs, leaning back on his heels.
“Archer…” I’m not sure if I want to protest or tell him where to find the patch so I bite my lip instead, stubbornly refusing to say anything. Part of me is convinced he won’t really remove it. The larger part is absolutely certain that’s exactly what he’s going to do.
He runs his hands over me, searching for the patch.
I hold my breath, our eyes locked in some silent battle that I’m well aware I’m already losing. I lost as soon as he touched me. Hell, maybe I lost as soon as I met him. I don’t know. But his fingers brush the patch on my upper arm.
The damn devil peeks out from his eyes. It lurks in his smile.
He carefully removes the patch before holding it up in front of my face, as if to show me the evidence of his determination. “Hope you didn’t pack any more of these, baby girl,” he says, his voice a deep rumble. “They won’t last either.”
I whimper in defeat. In surrender. In relief.
Archer Graves, the man I married in Vegas, is going to ruin me. And I’m not telling him no. I’m not trying to stop him. I’m not even trying to talk sense into him. Because God help us both, I want him to do it, consequences be damned.
He flicks the patch away, reaching for me again.
His hands sear my skin, setting me ablaze all over again. I squirm beneath him, arching into his touch, loving the way he’s so gentle and demanding at the same time…like I’m priceless and perfect.
“These fucking curves, Wren,” he groans, leaning down to press his lips to my stomach. “I’ve jerked myself raw thinking about putting my hands all over this perfect body.”
I bow beneath him, moaning. Most men don’t love curves like mine. When I dated in the past, my body was always a problem. Very few ever made it past the first date because of the way they looked at me like there was something wrong with me because of my size. Archer doesn’t look at me that way. He looks at me like he’s looking at perfection. He touches me like he’s worshipping.
Maybe that’s why I’m so willing to confess my own truth.
“I’ve thought about you too. So many damn times.”
He likes knowing that. A whole lot, judging by the way he nips at my skin and groans before hooking his hands into the waistband of my pants. “Did you get yourself off thinking about me, Wren? Fuck your fingers whispering my name?”
“Yes,” I whimper, lifting my hips so he can drag my pants and panties down my legs.
“Good.” He lifts his gaze to mine. “I want mine to be the only name you ever say. I want to be the only one you ever think about.” He exhales a shaking breath. “Christ, little bird, I’m so fucking desperate for you.”
I know how he feels. My body feels like it’s going to vibrate apart. The desire is too big to contain. It courses through me in waves, threatening to unmake me at a cellular level.