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)
I wait a couple of minutes, giving myself a moment to gather my nerve, to steel myself. Then, slowly, deliberately, I roll Shephard over onto his back, his body shifting beneath mine with a surprised groan. I straddle Shephard, the movement practiced, familiar, and he groans again, a deep, satisfied sound, when I take him inside me, the familiar fullness. He grips my thighs with his hands, strong and possessive, and I begin to move up and down in a slow, deliberate rhythm. I lean my head back and close my eyes, picturing the cabin ceiling, then Saint’s face, imagining, with a desperate, shameful intensity, that it isn’t Shephard beneath me right now, but him.
My mind races with everything Saint said, every single provocative word. I know I shouldn’t, but I follow through on his instructions, his silent dare, feeling the thrilling current of it course through me, igniting every nerve ending.
Shephard has no idea. He thinks this is for him. He thinks this is us.
When Shephard’s hand finds its way between my legs, a warm, familiar press against me, he begins to rub me. The pressure slowly builds as I pretend it’s Saint’s hand there, bringing me closer. I move with him, matching his rhythm, pushing faster, harder, and just before I’m about to come, just as the pleasure becomes too intense to bear, I open my eyes.
I immediately gasp, a sharp, choked sound, and can feel all the color rush from my face, draining away, leaving me cold and bloodless.
Saint is standing outside our bedroom window.
He’s there, a tall, dark silhouette against the backdrop of the full moon, which shines unnaturally bright around him, casting his form in a silver halo. Part of his shadow, long and distorted, falls over Shephard’s face, a chilling, dark stain on his unsuspecting features.
I’m so startled by his presence that I stop moving mid-thrust, frozen, my body seized up, my breath caught in my throat.
Shephard assumes it’s because he’s about to make me come, his body stiffening beneath me, his breath hitching slightly. “Almost there, baby,” he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. I do my best to convince him that’s what has me reacting this way, forcing a small, desperate groan. The last thing I need is for Shephard to lift his head and look behind him, out the window. My gaze is locked on Saint, a silent scream building in my chest.
I keep my eyes trained on Saint, unable to tear them away, nervous he’s about to do something, to shatter the glass, to reveal himself. Is he going to bang on the window? Break the glass to get to Shephard? To me? What the fuck is he doing here? His presence is a terrifying, electrifying violation.
He’s staring at me with a fierce intensity, his eyes like twin points of burning coal, and I can’t tell if it’s because he’s turned on or angry or jealous, or some terrifying combination of all three.
Saint raises an eyebrow, a slow, deliberate arch, when he notices I’ve frozen in place—on top of my husband—unmoving, utterly transfixed by him. He grins a little, a dark, knowing curve of his lips, then lifts an intimidating brow, gives a subtle, almost imperceptible nod, indicating I should resume what I was doing before I noticed him standing there, his silent command unwavering.
My lips begin to quiver, but it’s not because of how Shephard is touching me, not from the building pleasure. It’s because I’m scared. And as fucked up as this is—as perverse and wrong as it feels—I’m also, undeniably, turned on by it all. The forbidden thrill, the dangerous audacity, the sheer, breathtaking risk.
I start moving on top of Shephard again—slowly at first, then picking up speed, a frantic, desperate rhythm.
Saint’s gaze scrolls longingly over my body, a possessive, hungry sweep from my hair to my hips, and seeing that raw, unapologetic need in his eyes, the feral hunger, makes me move on top of Shephard even faster, a wild, frenzied pace, responding to him, not Shephard.
I don’t want Shephard touching me, not there, not now. His touch feels wrong right now, almost intrusive, as if it’s not meant for me, not meant for this moment. So, almost without thinking, I remove his hand from between my legs, and I press it against my hip, a silent, firm dismissal. His fingers twitch slightly in protest, a faint, questioning squeeze, but he doesn’t resist, simply shifting his grip to my hip bone.
When I come, I want it to be because of Saint’s unblinking stare, because of his silent command, not because of Shephard’s familiar hand.
I glance away from Saint for a split second, looking down at Shephard. His eyes are closed, his face relaxed in a way that tells me he’s utterly oblivious to what’s happening outside, to the predatory shadow falling across him, to the fact that another man is watching, claiming this intimate moment. His peaceful ignorance is both a blessing and a fresh stab of guilt.