Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
I speed up. Water sluices down my chest, my abs, over my knuckles as I stroke harder. I imagine flipping her onto her stomach on the bed, yanking her hips up, spreading her open with my thumbs so I can see how wet she is for me. Pink and glistening. I’d tease her first. I’d rub the head of my cock through her pussy, making her whine and push back, and then I’d slam home in one rough thrust. Her cry muffled in the pillow. Her walls fluttering, clenching, milking me while I fuck her deep and relentless.
“Ozzy—” I can hear her say it, breathy, broken. “Please—harder—”
My balls draw up tight. Heat coils low and vicious. I grip the base hard, trying to hold it off, but the fantasy keeps coming.
Her riding me now. Straddling my hips, hands braced on my chest, tits bouncing with every roll of her hips. She’s soaked, dripping down my shaft, coating my balls. I’d grab her ass, spread her wider, watch myself disappear inside her over and over while she gasps my name like a prayer.
I’m stroking fast now, fist flying, water slapping against my skin. My breath saws out in harsh pants. The need is everywhere. It’s burning in my gut, pulsing in my cock, and clawing up my spine.
I want to come inside her. Fill her up until it leaks out around me. Want to flip her over after, lick her clean, then do it again. Want to mark every inch of her until she smells like me, tastes like me, carries me inside her for days.
A low groan rips out of my throat. My hips jerk forward into my hand. Once. Twice.
“Fuck—Salem—”
I come hard. Thick ropes spill over my fist, splatter against the tile, washed away instantly by the spray. My knees nearly buckle. Pleasure spikes so sharp it’s almost painful, rolling through me in brutal waves until I’m shaking, forehead pressed to the wall, breath ragged.
It’s not enough.
The ache dulls for maybe thirty seconds, then creeps back in, heavier than before. Every day it gets worse.
I soap up, and rinse off. I shut the water off, stepping out, and toweling off hard.
She’s still out there. Probably sipping coffee, maybe humming under her breath, completely unaware that I just came so hard I saw stars thinking about burying myself in her until neither of us could move.
I pull on boxers, then sweats. I take one last steadying breath.
I can do this. I can walk out there, smile, act normal. Pretend the only thing I want is a cup of coffee. But God help me, the second she looks at me with those eyes, I’m not sure how much longer I can keep lying to both of us.
FIFTEEN
SALEM
I woke up early. My body hummed with need. Need for one sexy, gothic bodyguard. Ozzy.
God, I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t want him. Not after the trafficking ring, not after that white van with its blacked-out windows, not after every shadow in this safehouse still makes my pulse spike like I’m being hunted. I should be curled up in a ball, terrified of every man on the planet. But my body didn’t get the memo. Last night, falling asleep in Ozzy’s arms, hearing his heart beat through his chest, feeling the heat rolling off that big, solid frame… I got wetter than I’ve ever been in my life. Throbbing. Aching. So turned on I had to clench my thighs together and bite my lip to keep from making a sound. The thought of sliding my hand under his waistband, wrapping my fingers around him while he was still half-asleep, God, it nearly made me come right there.
I couldn’t stay in that bed another minute. So I slipped out at the first gray hint of dawn, heart racing like I’d been caught stealing, and padded barefoot to the kitchen. The house was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the soft creak of old floorboards under my feet. I pulled on the oversized T-shirt I stole from his drawer—the one that smells like him and hits me mid-thigh—and started the coffee. The rich, bitter scent blooms as it brews, but it does nothing to calm the slick heat between my legs. I shift my weight, pressing my thighs together again, and the friction only makes it worse.
By the time the machine gurgles its last drop, I’ve already replayed last night’s almost-touch a hundred times in my head. The way his voice dropped when he said “You don’t have to apologize. Not to me.” The way his eyes stayed on mine in the dark, dark enough to drown in. I’m pouring myself a mug when I hear the bathroom door open down the hall. Footsteps. Bare feet on hardwood. My stomach flips.
He walks into the kitchen and every coherent thought in my brain short-circuits.