Total pages in book: 180
Estimated words: 176012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 880(@200wpm)___ 704(@250wpm)___ 587(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 176012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 880(@200wpm)___ 704(@250wpm)___ 587(@300wpm)
We could argue about whose fault it was earlier when I was there, but I don’t blame her.
She’s feeling things whether I stand in her way or not, and maybe I expected her to ease her pain on her own like what I was planning to do once I left her, but apparently, she didn’t.
“Keep going,” I whisper.
Uncrossing her other leg, she bends them slightly and leans back on one hand. “What if I said I hated you?” she gasps, rolling her hips. “What if I said that you’re not the man I thought you were, and we don’t get along anymore, and whatever bond we had is just gone?”
My dick presses against my jeans. Does she hate me?
The tips of my fingers hum, feeling her dripping all over again. I lift my hand to my nose, still smelling her.
“What if I said I’m going to let myself meet someone now?”
I press my teeth together so hard my jaw aches.
“What if I said the man in my bed is the only one I’ll let protect me now?” she goes on. “And he won’t like anyone else stepping on his fucking turf.”
My heart aches, and I wince. Fuck. If someone else comes into her life, he will establish boundaries. If he’s worth his salt. I knew that, but now she does too.
“It will only feel good with a good man,” I growl, straining to keep control. “Don’t go wasting it on assholes.”
“I haven’t met any.”
“Quinn…” I warn.
You’ve met plenty.
But she looks right up to the camera. “Lucas.”
Her chest rises and falls, her heated breaths drifting into my ear and making my eyes nearly fall closed.
“Where are my panties?” she asks.
Sweat dampens the back of my neck, and I look over, picturing her in them with my mouth on the triangle of fabric.
“In my bed,” I tell her.
“Why?”
I unclench my jaw, unable to stop myself. “Because I want to feel them on my dick tonight.”
I hear her suck in a breath.
Reaching over, I place my hand on her panties and curl my fingers, bunching them in my fist.
Fuck this.
Fuck it.
I love her more than Farrow Kelly and Noah Van der Berg ever could. If it’s someone tonight, it’s me.
“Quinn,” I whisper. “Pull up your shirt.”
My voice is almost choked, my cock straining to grow under my clothes as I watch her on my screen.
Keeping one hand on the phone at her ear, she lowers her eyes and watches herself tug my T-shirt up, baring her stomach and then her breasts. Dark pink nipples point at me, the perfect shape of her soft skin. Plump and flawless. Leaving the shirt just above her tits, she leans back, looking up at me.
I can’t fucking think anymore. “Open your legs…”
She spreads her bent knees, my mouth going dry and dying for the smooth skin inside her thighs.
I groan, “Wider, baby.”
She tucks her bottom lip between her teeth and opens her legs more.
“Wider.”
And she opens them so wide, one foot drops off the side of the bed, the other leg still bent. Her body sits in full view, spread eagle with her breasts making me so goddamn hungry.
“You know what to do,” I pant. “I’m watching you.”
Setting her phone on the bed, she leans back on one hand and slides the other inside her panties, and within a minute, her head is falling back and she’s rolling her hips into her fingers.
She doesn’t know that I’ve already seen her do this, but I could watch it a million times.
“Where are you?” she calls out, and I can tell she has me on speaker.
Rising, I gaze at her as I unfasten my jeans. “In the guest room.”
“Tell me what you look like.”
We could video chat, but I love having this view of her. As if I’m sneaking a peek at something she thinks she’s alone for.
I wrap my hand around my cock, stroking the long, hard length. “Just muscle, baby. I look like muscle right now. Everything is hard for you. My whole body.”
I want to drive into her so goddamn much—my fingers, my tongue, my cock…
Taking her panties, I drop down onto the bed and slide them inside my pants, the cool cotton touching my dick.
I moan, slowly and gently stroking them up and down my length.
“Do they feel good?” she asks, rubbing herself.
“They feel like trouble.”
She lets out a little laugh. “Do you have any idea how I would feel?”
“I’ll never know,” I maintain, and I mean it. “I’m not the one for you, Quinn.”
To my surprise, she says, “I know.”
She does? I try to ignore the disappointment—or the aggravation—that she’s so easily put off.
I want her to forget me.
I need her to forget me.
“You can’t quit life in a city like that,” she goes on, “and come back here to Friday nights at the Loop, bake sales, and Fourth of July picnics.” She moans. “And my brothers would never look at you the same, would they?”