Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 21056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 105(@200wpm)___ 84(@250wpm)___ 70(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 105(@200wpm)___ 84(@250wpm)___ 70(@300wpm)
“This is the last time,” he growled against my lips.
I laughed breathlessly, nails scraping down his back. “You said that last night.”
“I mean it.” But his hand was already fumbling with the drawstring of my shorts, yanking them open, fingers diving inside. When he found me bare and dripping, he cursed low and filthily.
“Jesus… you’re already soaked.”
His fingers slid between my thighs, pushing past the soft cotton of my shorts until he felt how soaked I was for him.
He went completely still.
“Christ,” he muttered under his breath. His thumb brushed once along my center, slow and deliberate, just enough to make my breath hitch.
My hips rocked forward instinctively, chasing the pressure. “Marcus,” I whispered.
His jaw flexed hard. For a second I thought he would do it. I thought he’d slide his fingers inside me again and make me come the way he had the night before.
Instead he dragged his hand away slowly, like it physically hurt him to do it.
“Fuck,” he breathed, scrubbing a hand down his face.
I stepped closer, heart pounding. “Stop fighting it.”
His eyes darkened as they dropped to my mouth. “You have no idea how much I want to,” he said roughly. “But if I touch you again right now, I’m going to fuck you like I own you.”
My heart thundered at that, and I opened my mouth to demand he do just that, but his words stopped me.
“Get upstairs before I change my mind,” he said hoarsely. “Now.”
“Marcus—” I reached for him.
“Go.” His voice broke. “Please.”
I fixed my shorts with shaking hands, throat tight. I nodded and left him there, alone in the kitchen, staring at the floor as if he hated himself.
The next morning, he was gone before I woke up. Another note saying he was working late and not to wait up for him.
He did this for three days straight, leaving before dawn and coming home after midnight, barely speaking when our paths crossed. And I didn’t push it, didn’t try to reconnect.
He showered in the downstairs bathroom, crashed on the couch instead of his bed upstairs near mine. When we were in the same room, he kept distance with his eyes averted, jaw clenched, and body language screaming regret.
But the stolen moments still slipped through the cracks.
The fourth night he came home late, I was in the kitchen getting a glass of water, wearing just an oversized T-shirt and panties. I assumed he’d be working late so hadn’t expected him to see me in barely anything.
He walked in, and I looked over my shoulder. He saw me bending to grab a bottle from the lower fridge shelf and froze. I felt the heat of his stare on my ass, on my barely-there panties that showed more than they covered.
I stayed bent over for more time than what was necessary, letting his eyes take me, then straightened before speaking. “You’re avoiding me.”
“I’m trying to do the right thing.” His voice was strained, eyes flicking to the hem of my shirt where it barely covered my thighs then away.
“The right thing feels wrong without you touching me.”
He cursed under his breath, held still for a moment as if fighting himself, and then closed the distance in two strides. Marcus grabbed me by the waist and pinned me against the fridge, mouth slanting over mine in a deep, possessive kiss.
Thank God. He stopped fighting it.
His hands roamed under my shirt, rough palms skating up my sides to cup my bare breasts, thumbs flicking my nipples until they hardened into peaks. I moaned into his mouth, my hands exploring him in return as I traced his hard, defined skin that was toned and honed from years of working construction.
“You drive me fucking insane,” he muttered against my throat, teeth grazing my pulse. “My beautiful Lila. The one thing I shouldn’t want, but do. No one can know.”
I nodded, gasping as he ground his erection against my core through our clothes. “I know. Our secret. Just us.”
He kissed me harder, one hand slipping between my thighs to tease the edge of my panties, fingers brushing my soaked folds but not pushing inside. “Only this,” he growled. “We stop here.”
But he didn’t stop the kiss. Not until we were both breathless, my body humming with unspent need.
Then he pulled back, eyes tormented. “We’re done tonight.”
The fifth day was the same with him gone all day, me packing alone and the house echoing with unspoken tension. That night, he came home earlier than usual. I was in the living room sorting through old photo albums when he walked in.
He paused in the doorway, watching me flip through pictures of us from five years ago when I was eighteen. In one picture, he stood shirtless, working on a home renovation, sweat forever frozen on his hard, big, and muscular body.
The image twisted something in my gut—shame, yes, but also a dark thrill.