Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
We stare at each other, and in our silence, possibilities bloom.
“Why did you come pick me up tonight?” I ask softly. “Why did you bring me back here?”
He doesn’t answer the questions, and his non-response draws me closer. I pad toward him until my hands can slide up his hard chest, curving over his wide shoulders. I inch even closer until our toes touch, but it’s not enough. Almost touching is worse than not touching at all. I’m so close to being engulfed in his warmth, completely overtaken by him.
Cristiano keeps his hands by his sides, looking down at me with a curious expression while I touch him.
“So we’re really just going to sleep?”
His mouth hitches into a small smile. “I promised I would be a gentleman.”
I look at his lips, thinking the most depraved thoughts.
“Who said I want you to be a gentleman?”
He swallows, restraining himself even now.
I rise up onto my tiptoes and bring our heads together. “Hmm?” I look down to see his hand curl into a fist, and I smile against his cheek. “You don’t think I can tell how much you want me?”
It’s one of the craziest gambles of my life. In truth, I have no idea what Cristiano is thinking, and if I’m off base, I might be seconds away from the most heartbreaking rejection of my life. I wait on bated breath for him to do something, to prove his desire.
Still, his willpower doesn’t crack.
After an agonizing moment, when his hands remain in place, when his mouth makes no attempt to cover mine, I step back as searing shame washes over me. In an instant, I feel like a fool.
Part of me wants to grab my purse and leave. I’ll sleep in another bedroom or, better yet, find a ride back to my apartment. How far is the walk? I actually consider it. That’s how much I want to escape my embarrassment. I can’t look back at him. I turn off the lamp on my side, and just when I go to crawl into the bed (and suffocate myself under the blankets), he speaks.
“Isabel.”
My name is exhaustion and possession and need—the last ounce of patience he has.
“Nena, you don’t know what you do to me.”
He comes to me and hugs my middle, pulling me flush to him, sealing our bodies together the way I wish he would have a minute ago.
Too bad. He had his chance.
Now, I cross my arms in defiance. He left me hanging, and I want him to suffer because of it.
He chuckles darkly. “I was trying to be good. Are you upset I didn’t answer your questions? Are you upset I didn’t touch you before? God, you want to be touched. Don’t you?”
A sudden shiver races down my spine, and I hate it. I force my arms tighter across my chest and focus my gaze on a random spot across the room.
“You aren’t going to tell me? Hmm?” His voice drops lower, and I swear there’s a menacing edge to it when he continues, “Should I find out for myself?”
A flare of anticipation laced with fear has me second-guessing how far I’m pushing him. Should I just give in? Spin around and kiss him?
I can’t. It’s too late. My ego won’t allow it.
His hands come up under my shirt, gripping my waist, rocking my hips back against him. The sound he makes as my backside rubs along his growing length almost breaks me. I let my hands fall down by my sides.
Then, he starts to play dirty. His right hand leaves my waist and skims up my stomach until the side of his index finger just teases the bottom of my left breast. In my mind, I beg him to continue higher, but he doesn’t. His warm hand flattens and slides back down my stomach. My fingers dig into my palms.
He repeats the same exploration and I’m left on the edge. I hate him. That’s the only explanation for this consuming feeling. Though I try to seem immune, my body still responds to every single touch. His right hand moves down my hip and around my backside. The tips of his fingers dip beneath the boxers, along the outer curve, then back up to my hip.
Every nerve ending awakens beneath his touch, flaring to life, yearning for more.
Again, his hands skim my ribs under my T-shirt. He touches the underside of my breasts, higher this time—almost where I need him—and then he retreats. I squeeze my eyes closed as if that will keep the lid on my sanity. I’m getting more antsy and impatient by the second. What’s the point of making me suffer like this? Drawing it out so that I feel like I might scream, or worse, cry.
Everything is too much. His large hands claim every inch of my skin and yet not where I need him, not—