Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
This time I don’t make it even a step away. Dante’s knees buckle, and he starts to collapse. Reacting purely on instinct, I steady him before he falls to the floor with a thump loud enough to wake Camille.
“Sit. I’ll bring the water to you.”
Nodding, he slumps into the chair, then cradles his head in his hands. “I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me.”
“I have an inkling.” I switch off the shower, then wet a washcloth before returning to the vanity. “How much did you drink last night?”
Dante’s nose creases. “I didn’t… I don’t think.”
As I wipe at the mess crusted on his chin, I twist my lips. “You smell a little boozy. Not enough to wonder if you played a drinking game, but there’s a hint of…”—I breathe in deeply, flaring my nostrils—“the oak barrels they use when making Dalmore whiskey.”
“A fan of three-thousand-dollar whiskey?” he asks, slurring.
Hair tickles my spine as I shake my head. “I despise the scent of it. Too many—”
“Bad memories?” he says with me.
“Yeah.” My hand shakes when I remove a smear of red lipstick from his mouth before I instruct him to lift his arms.
“I’m barely touching you,” I murmur when he squirms from the washcloth scrubbing his pits. He doesn’t have bad body odor. I’m praying a good scrub will activate his natural manly scent enough to stop me from wondering why he smells like perfume and has a lipstick stain on his mouth. “Stop being a wuss.”
Dante arches a dark brow. It’s remarkably rigid considering how badly he’s swaying. “Did you just call me a wuss?”
“No, of course not.” My last word comes out with a squeal when he ends my lies by tickling my ribs. “Don’t.” My warning is stern and to the point. “I hate being tickled. It’s one of only a few things I hate.”
His smile. Kill. Me. Now.
“Dante…”
His name barely leaves my mouth when it’s replaced with an ear-piercing scream. He doesn’t just tickle my ribs, though. He finds the sensitive spot behind my knees, and I buck and kick out like I’m in the throes of ecstasy.
I contort so much that by the time the washcloth is discarded on the floor, I’m practically sitting in Dante’s lap and fighting for air. I’m not solely breathless from being tortured with immature, woeful tickling hands. It’s from the closeness of Dante’s face when his body responds to my closeness.
He thickens under my ass as his arms band around my back to tug me in nearer.
I’ll wallow in self-resentment for days to come when my hips involuntarily roll. It’s not my fault. An extremely handsome man is looking at me like I invented the sun.
Daftness inspired by lust is anticipated.
Instead of scalding my recklessness, Dante encourages it. After fisting my bun, he uses his grip as leverage to pull me down on him again and again. Tingles surface too fast to be safe, so I breathlessly murmur for him to stop.
“I don’t want to take advantage of you.”
He rolls his hip upward, grinding against me, before he locks his eyes with mine. They appear nowhere near as confused as they did a moment ago. “That’s not possible. You can’t take advantage of a willing participant.”
I twist my lips, confused by his reply.
If this is what he wants, why has he been so distant?
Dante doesn’t give me time to dwell on the facts. With his stocky thighs forcing my legs wide, and his cock’s head rubbing against my opening, stars commence blistering before I can catch my breath.
I try to pull away. It’s the right thing to do, but the plea in Dante’s voice when he begs to make me come is too much to bear.
“Let me do this for you. Let me make you come. Please.”
Ashamed by how fast he can unravel my morals, I bury my head into his neck and breathe through the hysteria. It should only take one sniff of his perfume-scented skin to return my respect.
It doesn’t.
I’m thrust into the throes of ecstasy only seconds later, Dante’s filthy, pleading mouth an unpinned grenade for any red-blooded woman.
I still as tingles race over every inch of my skin, and I breathe his name heavily in his neck. It’s a fast orgasm, but its swiftness doesn’t dampen its power in the slightest.
I’m exhausted by the time the simmers simper, but hopeful our exchange has sobered Dante enough for it to be the beginning of lust-filled embrace.
My hope is short-lived. As his cock throbs in sync to the needy pulse of my clit, Dante traces a cluster of freckles on my neck. I didn’t know they existed until they were pointed out in a similar manner years ago.
The softness of Dante’s touch and his rushed exhale bombard me with so many memories that I clam up. For nine months, the memories of the last time these imperfections were highlighted fueled my wish to live.