Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
“Touch yourself. Make yourself come again while I do. I want to watch you come when I mark you.”
He growls my name, and I whisper his, my hands moving harder and faster as I claim my own release. My head falls back and my hips rise, consumed in ecstasy. He comes across my belly, thick and hot, spilling across my skin in messy streams.
We collapse together, tangled and panting.
I don’t want to be anywhere but here… with him.
A few minutes later, he’s cleaned us up, and we’re wrapped again in damp towels, lazing by the fire.
“You look like you’re ready for a nap,” he says, sounding proud of himself.
“Mmm. Trying to decide between that and another word session.”
“How about both? Close your eyes and get a little cat nap, then up and at ’em for your words.”
My eyes are already closed.
I wake up aching.
Not sore, exactly. Just… empty. Like I need him inside me again, need to be reassured that he wants me. I liked how hot it was when he marked me and all, but… I need him in me.
Now.
I need it again. Deeper. Rougher.
The fire’s burned low and ember-red. A pine candle flickers somewhere close—warm wax and smoky sweetness curling through the air like incense.
He’s behind me, propped against the couch—long legs stretched toward the fire, his bare feet flexed against the hearth. His bare arms are crossed, lean muscle and old scars, as he watches something on the TV like he belongs here. Like he's always belonged here.
What is it?
I haven’t even turned the damn thing on since I got here.
Then I hear it—the sound before the screen catches up. Booby traps, screaming, that stupid, perfect Christmas chaos.
Home Alone.
I can’t help but smile.
We first watched that together, in another life—another version of us.
He laughs softly behind me, and it sounds real… almost boyish. That sound punches me right in the chest.
I move before I think.
The scratchy towel slips off my hips, damp and forgotten.
I crawl toward him—my hands and knees sinking into the thick rug. The sofa’s fibers scrape against my skin, rough and real, until I’m straddling his lap.
He stills instantly. His hands twitch like he’s trying not to grab me. Green eyes lock on mine—sharp and predatory. Holding back, just barely.
I don’t speak as I press him back against the couch—my palms flat to his chest, heat pouring off him in waves. And the part of me that knows he’s stronger, that he could overpower me, likes that he doesn’t.
He lets me settle over him. The hard ridge of him presses against my slick, wet heat.
“Emma…” He breathes it like it’s a prayer… a warning… a fucking plea.
I grind down slow and filthy. My hands spread over his stomach—my palms catching on hard lines and smooth heat. He’s burning, and I’m freezing. I didn’t realize how cold I was until I touched him.
He’s tight, like a wire… like violence barely leashed.
“I want you. Again.”
His groan is deep and dark. His head falls back as I trail my lips along his throat, the rasp of his beard igniting me.
I catch his earlobe between my teeth.
“Are you sure, lass?” His voice frays at the edges. “Because once you take control, I want it rough. I want you to lose control.”
“But let me start it this time,” I whisper.
That does it. His jaw flexes, and his cock twitches beneath me. And his hands finally, finally, find my thighs. He grips them like he’s branding me, bruising ownership into my skin.
I reach between us and take him in hand, then stroke—once, twice—just to watch him shudder. Just to take something back. I lift up, then sink down on his cock.
My moan cuts through the air, sharp and raw.
“Christ, Emma.” He growls like the name burns.
I ride him slow, with drawn-out agony. Every thrust is a tease. His pupils are blown wide, his mouth parted, hands clenched at my waist.
I dig my nails into his shoulders. He grips tighter, guiding me harder and deeper. He watches me like I’m the last fucking miracle in a ruined world.
“Like that, baby…” His voice is gravel and need. “Just like that. Ride me like you mean it.”
And when he brings his fingers between us, pressing his thumb to my swollen clit—I see stars. The pressure, the heat.
I clench around him, chasing it, right there on the edge. Then, his palm covers my mouth—not rough, not cruel, but firm.
His eyes widen, locked on mine. He’s watching me squirm and pant, barely breathing through my nose. A little breath play, a lot of control.
The noise is wet and frantic when he groans, his cock twitching inside me. “So fucking good like this,” he growls. “So goddamn beautiful.”
I break. My body locks and shudders, my scream muffled beneath his hand.
His other arm crushes me to him as he slams upward—hard, deep, and relentless. I’m boneless and trembling, sprawled on him like a fucking ruin.