Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
She yanks me in with her thighs as I line up and drive in, slow at first, then deeper. She’s so ready for it she’s shaking, hands still fighting for leverage, for a way to hold on to me or the world as I fill her up, every inch earning a new sound from the back of her throat. I brace one forearm against the clock face, palm flat on chilled glass just above her head, and thrust forward in short, eager strokes. Her dress is rucked high around her waist, dark fabric pooling beneath her, and I swear she looks like something painted, something baroque and religious, framed in stone and light.
She keeps her eyes on me, unblinking, drinking in every flicker of pleasure I let show. Her smile goes sloppy and fades, lips raw from my teeth, but she never stops moving, hips canting hard as I piston into her. I want to savor it, stretch it out, but she tastes like wind and ocean, and it’s all I can do to keep from flying apart on the spot.
I take hold of the belt again and twist, the leather digging into my fist, and she arches, throat gleaming with sweat or fog or both. Her breathing becomes shallow, strained, and I watch her pupils dilate as the pressure builds. One twist too much and I could crush her windpipe. One second too long and she goes from gasping to unconscious.
She knows this. I can see it in her eyes—the exact moment she realizes I’m holding her life in my hands along with the belt. And instead of fear, instead of panic, she lets her head fall back farther, giving me more access to her throat. Offering herself completely.
Her pulse batters against the leather, frantic and wild, and I feel every beat through the belt. Her lips part but no sound comes out now, just the desperate draw of air through her constricted throat. Her hands claw at my shoulders, not to push me away but to pull me closer, even as I can tell her vision starts to blur at the edges.
This is the line. Right here. One more twist and I cross from lover to killer.
Her gaze blacks out for a moment and she is all nerve endings, nothing left but the direct line between her cunt and the sound my hips make when I bottom out. There is no world below us—just our pressed bodies and the fine line between pleasure and death.
I loosen the belt just enough to let air rush back into her lungs, and she gasps, the sound raw and desperate. But her eyes never leave mine, never show anything but complete faith that I’ll know exactly when to stop.
She trusts me. She fucking trusts me and that truth makes my cock harder than it’s ever been before.
She comes without warning and with no inhibition, clamping around me so hard I have to grit my teeth and grunt into her hair to keep myself from spilling right then. She chokes out a sob, raw and unselfconscious.
I keep thrusting, greedy now, the pressure gone from the belt but my fist still knotted in her hair. I sink into her and she holds me there, ankles crossed behind my back, locked tight. I come—white-hot, atomic—bursting behind my ribs all the way to my teeth, and I must make some kind of sound because she laughs, breathless and spent, and echoes it back at me. We don’t move. My hand releases the belt and instead holds the smooth arch of her neck, thumb resting on her rapid heartbeat.
When we finally separate, she stays sitting on the ledge while I deal with the condom and fix my clothes. My shirt is probably ruined—half the buttons are scattered across the clock tower platform—but I don’t give a damn.
“That was . . .” she starts, then trails off, laughing softly.
“Yeah.”
She slides down from the ledge, smoothing her dress back into place. Her hair is a mess, her lips swollen, and there’s already a faint mark blooming on her throat where the belt pressed against her skin. She looks thoroughly debauched, and the sight makes me want to push her back up against that clock face and start all over again.
But more than that, she looks content. Satisfied in a way that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the fact that she let me put a belt around her throat and never once doubted I’d keep her safe.
No one has ever given themselves to me that completely before.
“We should probably head back,” she says, putting my shirt back on for me since I can’t manage it with the missing buttons.
I watch her fingers work, so careful and domestic, and something twists in my chest. Not long ago I was a retired killer living alone in a house full of ghosts. Now I’m standing in a clock tower while a woman I’m falling in love with fixes my clothes after the most intense sex of my life.