Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 24601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 123(@200wpm)___ 98(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 123(@200wpm)___ 98(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
We fit. I don't know how else to say it. For the first time in my life, someone fits me, everywhere, in every way. It isn't just our bodies—it's everything. The way he kisses me, the way he says my name, the way he looks at me like I'm the only thing that matters.
I've never needed much in my life, but I need this man to keep cherishing me just like this. I need him to keep claiming every piece of me like this.
"Christ, Morgan," he breathes, his body trembling. "I want to keep you right here forever."
"Yes," I choke, pretty sure I could die happy right here.
He starts to move, slow at first, like he's savoring every inch of me. He kisses me through every thrust, his hips grinding down in a rhythm that feels like it was made just for me.
I can't stop touching him. My hands roam over his back, feeling the play of muscle under his skin and the way his body shudders. I wrap my legs around him and pull him closer, letting him know I want it harder, deeper, rougher.
He gives it to me, groaning my name, his teeth scraping along my collarbone, his hand fisted in my hair. "You feel so fucking good," he grits out. "You're the tightest, sweetest little thing."
"Faster," I gasp, unable to get enough, my whole body wound tight. "Blaze, please—"
"Give me what I want first, baby," he growls against my throat, thrusting harder, deeper, making me cry out. "Tell me who you belong to, and then I'll let you come."
"You," I pant, my nails digging into his shoulders.
"That's right, Calamity." His voice is rough velvet, his hips moving in a way that feels like coming home. "My wild girl. My perfect fucking girl. You feel how good we fit?"
"Yes!" I sob. "I was made to fit you."
He drives into me with a wildness that steals my breath, our bodies slapping together, his growls mingling with my cries. "That's it, baby," he rasps against my ear, his breath hot and ragged. "Take all of me."
"I am," I gasp, digging my nails into the hard muscles of his back. "God, I am."
I'm so damn full of him, he's everywhere, seeping into my pores, changing my whole world. I don't want him to stop, not now, not ever.
"Look at me," he commands, and I force my eyes open, meeting his stormy blue gaze. "I want to watch you fall apart on my cock."
He shifts his hips, hitting a spot that makes me see stars.
I cry out, my back arching off the bed. "Right there! Don't stop. Oh, please don't stop."
"Never," he vows, his thrusts frantic, possessive. "My sweet, wild Calamity. Tell me who you belong to, baby."
"You. I'm yours," I sob, the pleasure coiling so tight I can't think, can only feel.
His mouth crashes down on mine, swallowing my moans as his thrusts become shorter, harder. I feel him trembling above me, his control fraying. "Come with me, Morgan," he begs, his voice raw. "Come for me, baby. Now."
The command, the sheer need in his voice, shatters me. My orgasm rips through me, violent and blinding. I scream his name into his mouth as my body convulses around him, lightning bolts of pleasure ripping through me.
He groans, a deep, guttural sound of surrender, and I feel him pulse inside me, his own release hot and perfect as he collapses against me, his forehead pressed to mine.
His weight is a comfort, anchoring me to reality. I run my fingers through his damp hair, feeling the steady thunder of his heart against my chest, and I smile, burying my face in his throat.
My body shakes slightly.
"Are you laughing?" he asks.
"Yes."
He tips my head back, meeting my gaze with a question in his eyes.
"I think I have Stockholm Syndrome," I say, another giggle escaping my lips before I can stop it. "You aren't supposed to fall for your kidnapper."
"Jesus." He freezes on top of me, not even breathing. And then I'm flat on the bed, every inch of him pressed to me. "Say that again," he growls, his eyes wild.
"I think I have Stockholm Syndrome."
"The other part."
"Oh." I cup his cheek, smiling up at him. "I'm falling for you, Blaze. So freaking hard."
"Thank god," he breathes. "Thank god. I don't have to build a dungeon to keep you."
"Wait. That was an option?"
"Fuck yes," he growls, crushing me to his chest. "I even discussed it with Jon Bon Pony."
That's all it takes before I'm clinging to him, laughing uncontrollably. And it feels good. God, it feels so damn good.
Chapter Nine
Blaze
"What are you drinking?" Morgan asks, snuggling up against my side at the poker table in Wade's living room during our weekly poker game on Thursday night.
"Whiskey."
She nudges my glass, her nose scrunched up. "Is it good whiskey?"