Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
This is fucked. I should shove him off. Instead I press closer, chasing more.
I want to be consumed. Want to offer myself up and watch him take every piece, watch him erase every line I thought I had.
“I'm gonna make you come, but I can't promise you I'm not gonna fuckin' lose it when I feel you around my finger.”
Each word brands itself between kisses, sharp and claiming, sinking past skin straight into bone. I nod—pathetic, shameless, starving. My body betrays every promise I made to myself about staying away from him.
His hand scorches a path to my front, and fuck, I'm already arching into his touch before my brain catches up. His head angles to turn the kiss savage—all teeth and starvation. The bastard knows exactly what he's doing to me. Fingers tear past lace, finding the slick heat between my thighs.
My hips buck forward. Needy. Desperate. Everything I swore I'd never be for him.
He pulls back just enough to smirk, and that look delivers more than any threat. That fucking smirk that says he owns me and we both know it.
“Are these the ones you wore the other night?”
I hold my breath.
His mouth twitches. “When you fucked yourself to me.”
I shrug.
“Good,” he whispers, his fingers leaving a trail of heat as he finds the waist of my jeans. He swallows my gasp with his teeth. One finger slides inside. “Fuck,” he grunts, the sound barely audible. The image of anyone else getting this version of him claws through me, and I'm muttering the Prevention Mantras under my breath. “You feel as fucking good as I knew you would.”
My body locks. His thumb presses my clit like he's marking territory. “Say it.” He nips at my chin. “Say you're mine.”
Mantra’s? Laugh. Out. Loud. That’s cute…
Two fingers glide through my slick heat like they memorized the route. He doesn’t own me—swear to God—but I grind down, starving for demolition. I'm not his. Never will be. But I fuck his hand like I am, chasing ruin.
“Louder.” His teeth sink into my earlobe.
I come apart with his name carved into my tongue, his palm catching every shudder. He doesn't stop—drives through it, beyond pleasure into absolution through annihilation.
“There.” His voice is shattered glass. “Now you're ruined for them all.”
Feel nothing. Block.
Breathe. Observe.
I bend, I don't break.
My hand shoots to his belt. He laughs, working my pussy like he's studied the damn blueprint. “Nah uh. We don't have time for that.”
“Asher, I'm—” My hips chase his rhythm, hunting every scrap of friction he's offering. His thumb finds my clit, circling as his finger strokes that perfect spot inside. “Close—so, I'm—”
“You gonna come for me again like a good fucking girl? Or you gonna make me work for it?”
I'm not making him work for shit, because every muscle in my body locks tight, coiling like a wire pulled to breaking
His tongue drags across my chin, over my cheek as I shatter beneath his hand. My body convulses so hard the chairlift rocks, metal groaning.
He withdraws his fingers with a deliberate slowness that borders on cruel. He lifts his hand, eyes fixed on me, and parts his lips.
Tongue first—swift, possessive—then his mouth seals around the tips. He sucks once, cheeks hollowing, and a fresh pulse hits me in places I thought were wrung dry. The blue of his stare locks me in, dares me to flinch while he tastes every inch of proof he owns.
I breathe like I’ve forgotten how.
He releases his fingers with a soft pop, wipes the back of his hand across his jaw, and grins like he’s already planning what to eat next.
He groans, head tipping back against the seat as his shoulders drop. “Fuck.”
Fuck is right. I’m way past fuck that I’m not sure fuck even knows where I am anymore. Jesus. Nothing is making sense and—
Emotionless. Must focus.
I slip off his lap, chewing on my bottom lip before realizing I’m fucking doing it and I look weak.
He yanks his hoodie up, shadows swallowing everything but his jaw and those goddamn dimples when he grins.
“Nothing. Just that I've tasted you now, Venom.” He shifts up but keeps the hood pulled low. Leaning forward, he plants a kiss on my lips. “Your ass is mine for the remainder of this trip.”
Heat rushes up my throat, dizzy and thick. I should shove him away. I don’t. His kiss stamps its victory, and I swallow the noise that wants out.
The lift jerks, then pauses. Steel cables groan overhead. We’re suspended in white sky, the final ascent stretching under us. I lean around the breadth of his shoulders, searching for anything to ground me, but the mountain just keeps rising.
Those words already tattoo themselves behind my ribs. Days? Months? Try forever. One thing about Asher—I was right. When he claims something, he keeps it.
The chair jolts again and I turn to him. “What have you done to me?”