Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
I heft her onto the altar. The unlit candles are knocked onto the floor as I spread her legs. She’s bare and smooth, pure and perfect. I lick her, lapping her up, eating her with a crazed intensity. I need her now more than I’ve ever needed anything in my life. I suck and lick her clit, gliding fingers deep inside as she grabs my hair and pulls.
“You’re fucking crazy,” she moans. “God, this is so insane.”
“You’re perfection. You’re divinity. Prayers won’t do you justice. I need more.”
“Oh, fuck,” she gasps, arching into my mouth. I grind my fingers deeper as I suck her clit, driving her deep into pleasure, but I don’t let her come. Instead, I pull back, undressing myself until my hard cock stands stiff and pulsing between us.
My goddess is leaning back on her hands and staring up at me. Drool dripping from her lips. Pussy dripping down her thighs.
“Tell me you want this,” I say, slowly stroking my thick cock.
“You’re going to ruin me.”
“And you’re going to make me a better man.”
“Fuck me.”
I don’t need more. I pull her against me and glide my cock into her aching core, thrusting into her, spearing her deep. She screams out as her fingernails claw into my back and I roar like a demon, grinding and fucking her, our sweat mixing as I bite her lower lip. She bites me back hard enough to make me bleed.
I stab into her again and again, filling and fucking and thrusting with an obsessive need, her breasts shaking with each glorious rock of my hips.
“More, god, more,” she moans, eyes rolling back. “I’m so fucking close.”
“Come for me, love, let me feel you. Come with me, goddess, please,” I beg, losing myself in the psychotic spiral of her tight heavenly pussy.
I fuck and fuck, grinding and thrusting and taking her as mine until she finally gasps and pushes into me, her body losing control. I feel her come, her pussy spasming and tightening around my cock, and I finally release myself with a low, sensual gasp of her name.
“Bianca.”
I come inside her. She wraps her legs around me, making sure I’m thrust deep as we both explode, finish, and drift down into bleak heaven. Bliss rolls down my spine. The altar to her is trashed and ruined. Her skin is flushed and her eyes are dewy and heavy-lidded.
“Cormac,” she says, breathing hard. “Tell me you love me again.”
“I love you.”
“Tell me you mean it.”
“I mean it.” More than life. More than death. “Always.”
She buries her face in my chest and stays there as I hold her, my cock still inside her pussy, the mementos of a thousand kills and a thousand answered prayers staring as we remain wrapped together.
Chapter 28
Bianca
Iget a booth with a good view of the front door in the back of my favorite diner. It’s past the lunch rush, and most of the place is clearing out. A cup of coffee steams at my elbow as I shuffle some of the papers in front of me, feeling strangely nervous and unsure about myself.
When I started this shelter project, I never really questioned whether I was qualified or not. I figured, even if I’m not necessarily the most experienced, I can at least find people who know what they’re doing and can help me get everything running properly.
Motivation trumps background most of the time.
But right now, I’m feeling like a little minnow swallowed in a huge pond. I stare down at the resume in front of me, and I’m thinking maybe I’m in way over my head.
Maybe I’m not cut out for this?
But before I can let all the negative voices get the best of me, a woman steps into the tiny front waiting area.
Butterflies go wild in my chest as I stand and wave her over. She smiles at me, white teeth, professional lipstick, her dark hair pulled up into a bun a lot like my own. We’re around the same height, similar build, except she’s in her mid-forties with smile lines around her eyes and a very confident stride.
I’m weirdly jealous of the way she walks.
“Hello, Dr. Vasquez,” I say, shaking her hand. “It’s so good to meet you.”
“And you as well, Mrs. Whelan.”
I resist the urge to flinch at that name. It still feels really bizarre. “Thanks for meeting me here. Our offices are a little sparse right now, and I was thinking this would be more comfortable.”
“No, this is fantastic. I appreciate the opportunity.” She slides down into the booth across from me. “I’ll be honest, when I got the call about your new project, I was a little skeptical. But all the materials you sent over look fantastic.”
“I’m really happy to hear you say that.” I lean back and absently study her while glancing down at her resume. Elena Vasquez has fifteen years of experience in domestic violence advocacy and she finished her PhD from Columbia recently. She managed crisis intervention teams, is fluent in Spanish and English, and she’s exactly the kind of no-bullshit woman I need to help me get this project up and running.