Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
My hesitation in answering him gives him what he’s looking for. “My wallet. Be right back.” He crosses the dark room, and I hear him rifling through the wallet. I even hear him tear the wrapper as he’s making his way back to me.
And then he’s back on top of me, condom in place, his mouth pressed against mine again. He returned so fast, I didn’t even get a good enough look at him to determine whether this is going to hurt.
I’ve never had that before—the kind of sex women have in the books I write. Every man I’ve ever been with has been of average size, so I’ve always had to imagine what it would be like to be fucked by a man who is so big, it actually hurts.
As soon as I wrap my legs around him, it’s clear that I won’t have to imagine it any longer. I can feel the intimidating length of him rubbing against my thigh.
When he repositions himself so that he can start to slide into me, I wince.
His mouth is feathering mine, back and forth. “Just say stop if you want me to stop, okay?” The gentleness in his voice coupled with the reassuring look in his eyes makes me putty beneath him.
He begins to push the rest of himself into me, and I close my eyes, savoring every second of this. I pay attention to the pain, to the pleasure, to the noises we’re both making. I imagine how I’m going to describe this when I write it all down.
Painful, yet satiating.
Sensual, yet animalistic.
We find our rhythm almost instantly, and I stop thinking about how I’ll describe this. All I can think about is how good this feels. Those thoughts are occasionally mixed with worry about the current state of my morals, but that worry is easy to pack away when Saint kisses me.
I could get used to this.
So used to this.
That thought terrifies me as my moans echo through the house.
Chapter Eleven
The click of the front door closing is still echoing in the house when I wake. I immediately look around the living room, sitting up on the couch.
Saint is gone.
I walk to the living room window and watch, hidden behind the curtains, as his dark car pulls out of my driveway and disappears down the street. A strange mix of relief and an unsettling emptiness settles in my chest. He always leaves.
I wait. One minute. Then two. The urge to know, to see, to understand who he is and where he comes from gnaws at me. It’s an intriguing itch, one I know I shouldn’t scratch, but I can’t help myself. And if I stand here long enough to talk myself out of this, it’ll be too late.
I hurry to my room and pull on the one sundress I packed, throw on some flip-flops, and then grab my keys, my heart thrumming a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
The sun is low as it rises in the east, painting long golden shadows across the street. This is a bad idea, my logical brain screams. He’ll see me. But the other, more insistent side, the one that’s been captivated by Saint since he first walked into my life, pushes me out the door.
My car feels like a glaring beacon as I back out of the driveway. I drive quickly down the road, assuming he turned left to go toward town. I drive quickly still, another minute, until I spot what looks like his car. I keep a good distance behind him as we travel, trying to blend in with the sparse morning traffic. My grip on the steering wheel is tight, knuckles white. Every passing car is a mini panic attack, every turn a potential reveal. I just want to know where he goes, where he lives. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll catch a glimpse of her, the wife. The woman who holds the other, real part of his life.
Fifteen minutes creep by. He’s taking a route I don’t recognize, leading me farther away from the sanctuary of my cabin. My stomach churns with a mix of anticipation and dread when he turns onto a county road. What will I see? What will I learn?
Will I regret it?
Then, as soon as I make the turn, the brake lights of his car catch my eye, bright red against the green of the trees. He is already pulled over.
He’s already outside his car.
He’s waiting for me.
My breath hitches. How did he know? How did he even see me? I’m scrambling for a plausible reason for being on this street, in this neighborhood.
He’s standing by the driver’s side, looking directly at my car with crossed arms as he leans against his own. There’s no mistaking the stern set of his jaw, the narrowed eyes. My heart sinks. He definitely knows.