Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
“I can't—” She gasps. “Ashland, I'm—”
“Go ahead, Bianca. Let me feel you.”
I grind against her harder, faster, watching her face as she falls apart. Her mouth opens in a silent cry, her whole body going taut in my arms as she trembles through it. I can feel her pulsing, even through our clothes, and it takes every ounce of control I have not to follow her over that edge.
“Fuck…” I breathe against her neck, holding still as she comes down, her body still shaking with aftershocks. “You're so fucking beautiful when you come.”
She's trembling against me, and I can see her pupils still blown wide with want.
“That was—” she starts, but seems unable to finish.
“Just the beginning,” I promise her, even as my cock screams at me for relief.
“Not like this.” I pant, fighting for control even as every instinct screams at me to take her right here. “Not against a wall for our first time. You deserve better.”
“I don't care—”
“I do.” I set her down gently but keep her caged against the wall, my arms on either side of her. “When I take you, lass, it'll be in a bed. Slow. Thorough. I'll take my time learning every inch of you. Make you come so many times you forget your own name.”
She's still catching her breath, her lips swollen, her hair wild.
“When?” she breathes out.
“When you're ready. When you can tell me you want this—want me—without a single doubt in your mind.” I trace her swollen bottom lip with my thumb. “I've waited six years. I can wait a little longer.”
“What if I'm ready now?”
My smile is pained. “You're still processing. Still figuring out what you feel. And I won't take advantage of that, no matter how much I want to.”
And I do want to, so fucking badly.
“You're infuriating.”
“Aye. But I'm also right.” I force myself to step back, putting distance between us before I lose control completely. “Go get dressed, lass. I'll make breakfast.”
“Ashland—”
“After we eat, you're going to ask me every question you have. About the watching, the photos, all of it. And I'm going to answer honestly. No more secrets between us.” I let her see the seriousness in my eyes.
I turn and head inside before I can change my mind. Before I can throw her over my shoulder and take her to bed, like every instinct is screaming at me to do.
In the kitchen, I lean against the counter, my hands gripping the edge, breathing hard.
She called my violence beautiful.
Chapter Twenty
Ashland
I make pancakes because I know they're her favorite, with fresh berries on top because I've watched her eat them that way for years.
She sits across from me at the small table, pushing the berries around with her fork. “I’m starting to sort of like that you know so much about me. It’s a little endearing.”
“Endearing’s better than creepy.”
Does she like it when I tell her the details I know?
“What else do you know about me?” she asks, taking a big gulp of tea as if to hide her nerves.
“Your favorite book is Le Morte d'Arthur. You cry every time Lancelot and Guinevere are discovered, and probably not because they were caught, but because you believe true love should triumph even when it's wrong.”
I’m cheating a little because she may have said as much in an essay I read word for word. The professor gave her a low mark because he’s a prick, but we had a little chat, and she passed that class with flying colors.
Her throat works as she swallows.
“You bite your lip when you're thinking about something you want but don't think you should have. Like you're doing right now.”
She releases her lip immediately, and I can't help the small smile.
“You sleep on your left side with one leg out of the covers because you run hot at night. Your favorite color is actually green, not pink, like everyone assumes. I’m guessing your mom dressed you in pink when you were growing up because that was her favorite.” I pause when I see a flare of recognition in her eyes. “And you have a small birthmark on your right hip that's shaped like a star.”
Her face flames red. “How do you know about the birthmark?”
“The photos.”
She goes very still. “Show me.”
Fuck. I knew this was coming, but I'm still not ready.
“Bianca—”
“You said no more secrets. Show me the photos. All of them.” Her voice is steady, but her hands aren't. “I want to see exactly how deep this obsession goes.”
This is it. The moment she'll see me for the monster I am and run.
But I stand anyway, walk to my bedroom, and retrieve the lockbox that holds years of obsession.
When I return and set it on the table between us, my hands are surprisingly steady.
“Once you see this, you can't unsee it,” I warn. “And you might decide you need—”