Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
She grabs my hair and fucks my mouth, chasing that hot, shimmering pleasure. No more prolonging. We’ve both waited long enough.
I shove a finger inside her, curling it just right, and stroke the spot that sends her tumbling.
The sounds of her growling, groaning, screaming pleasure make me harder than I’ve ever been. As her inner muscles spasm around my finger, I grind my aching dick into the mattress, seeking relief and finding none.
Christ, I need to fuck her. But I can’t until I’ve revealed every truth I’ve kept from her.
As she catches her breath, I slowly crawl up her trembling body. My hands follow the sinuous curves of her sides, outlining her hips and cradling her ribs. My fingers slot into the grooves between bones as if her rib cage was made for my grip.
I hold her close as my lips reunite with her love-bitten beauty mark. Then I fall into the lush heat of her mouth, deep and consuming, letting the kiss claim me as fully as I claim her.
There’s no end to this obsession. I love her madly, shamelessly, and could spend the remainder of my life with her mouth against mine, floating and buzzing in this blissful fantasy.
But I owe her answers.
“Dove…” I slow the kiss, despite her sounds of protest. “Sweetheart…” I ease back, cupping her face. “We need to talk. And if we stay in this room, I’ll have come dripping from your lips, your cunt, and your sweet little asshole.”
A moan vibrates in her throat as she lowers her gaze to the chub tenting my jeans.
“Don’t even think about it.” I grab her discarded clothes and help her pull them back on.
Once we put ourselves together, I follow her to the door.
“Is there a place where we can talk?” I glance up at the ceiling, looking for cameras. “The walls out there have eyes and ears.”
“I know a place.” She fits her hand in mine, just like she did all those years ago, and leads me outside to the citrus grove.
Jungle heat hangs low beneath a sky layered with thick, silver clouds. The fragrance of sweet orange blossoms saturates the air. Green leaves gleam dark and waxy, and fruit glows like small suns against the shade.
I follow her to a stone bench set at the center, worn smooth by years of quiet use.
“Matias grew this grove for Camila.” She smiles up at the canopy of fruit-bearing trees. “Long before she was his.”
“Matias would argue that Camila has always belonged to him.”
“Is that true for you? Have I always been yours?”
“Yes, Little Dove. Say it again.”
“I’ve always been yours, Jag.”
My dick hardens, ready to thrust that promise deep inside her body.
Her eyes glimmer, and she pivots toward the citadel.
“Second floor.” She points upward, indicating a balcony tucked into white and glass. “That’s us.”
We sit side by side on the bench. I shift closer until our shoulders meet, until her thigh rests against mine.
Our hands find each other, fingers threading together, settling on my lap and taking me back to another time, to all the other benches that cradled us in the dark at night.
“All right.” I draw a slow breath and tip my head toward her. “Ask what you need to ask. Or I can start back when it was just us and the streets.”
“Tell me about you, Jag. I want to know about the man you worked so hard to keep hidden.”
Pulse humming and shoulders loose, I stroll into the private suite with my new ride-or-die bestie at my side.
Frizz shuts the door behind us, and I scan the bougie space I’ll be sharing with Jag and Dove.
They’re not here.
Absence leaves a trace, and yeah, Jag and Dove left one. My eyes go straight to the bed.
Whatever happened, the mattress lost the fight. Sheets twisted, pillows flung, the quilt dragged halfway to the floor… If I press my nose to it, will I smell the climax of their reconciliation workout?
One can only hope.
Beside me, Frizz waggles his eyebrows, his lips twitching behind the stitches.
“Stepsiblings.” I clap him on the back. “They’re a whole genre of filthy.”
He folds in half, shaking with silent laughter.
This guy. He laughs at all my jokes.
When he straightens, he wipes his eyes and jabs a thumb toward the door.
“Yeah. Go on.” I wave him off. “Don’t forget. Tattoo session at ten.”
He gives me a thumbs-up and slips out.
Unhooking my corset, I let it fall to the floor. Then I explore the suite, opening drawers, evaluating space, and emptying the luggage.
I hang what needs hanging, fold the rest, and line up shoes. I packed enough clothes for Jag and Dove to accommodate every mood swing, identity shift, and wardrobe crisis.
Honestly, what would they do without me?
The sun slides down the glass windows, turning everything honey-gold. Outside, the jungle presses close, hovering like a dark, patient thing, beckoning me.