Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Once I’m back under control, I square my shoulders, inhale deeply, and push through the door. Only to stop short when I find Oliver waiting in the hallway. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, suit jacket open, the top button of his shirt unfastened. The low light catches his sharp jaw as his gaze pins me in place.
Before I can gather my thoughts, he moves. One long stride, then another, and he’s in front of me. His hands wrap gently around my arms, firm but careful, as he guides me backward through the door.
He clicks the lock behind us.
“What are you doing?” I snap, voice shaking. It’s not fear that has me trembling but the charge that seems to spark whenever we’re close.
He doesn’t move or even blink.
A shiver slides through me.
“Oliver.” I edge back until the wall is cool against my spine. His nearness fills the space with a mix of heat and barely restrained fury.
Every rational thought scatters like dust in the wind.
I should be afraid.
But fear never comes into it. Just the molten, familiar pull that starts low and deep in my core before spreading through me like wildfire.
“It’s over,” I manage. “We’re both out with other people. Whatever we had is done.”
His mouth curves, but not with amusement.
It’s possession.
“Neither of us are on dates.” He steps closer, until there’s barely space between us. “And we’re not over, baby.”
My body goes still as the air hangs heavy, thick with truths I can’t bear to admit.
To him… or myself.
His head dips, mouth hovering over mine. “As far as I’m concerned, we’ve barely scratched the surface.”
His fingers trace the line of my jaw. Even though the touch is light as a whisper, it shoots straight through me, sparking along every frayed nerve. His thumb skims the edge of my lip, coaxing it open until I exhale without meaning to.
As much as I know I should stop him—at the very least, push him away—I don’t.
Because every inch of me is tired of pretending I don’t want this.
That I don’t want him.
When his mouth collides with mine, the impact destroys what’s left of my resolve. Heat, hunger, and years of denial detonate in a single kiss. His hand slides into my hair, angling me closer, while mine fists his shirt, pulling him in until there’s nothing left between us.
It’s reckless.
Dangerous.
Everything I promised myself I’d never want again.
That knowledge only makes me kiss him with a desperation I can’t hide.
When we finally splinter apart, my chest rises and falls in rapid succession. His forehead rests against mine, both of us unsteady.
That’s when I realize he’s right.
This isn’t over.
It’s just the beginning.
20
Oliver
I’m done pretending I can keep my hands off her.
The second my tongue slides past her lips, her resistance crumbles, melting into a groan that vibrates straight through my bones.
It’s the exact balm I was in search of.
It’s been seven days since I’ve been buried deep inside her, and every single one of them has been torture. Nights spent lying awake with her voice playing on repeat in my head like a ghost I can’t outrun. Days haunted by the taste of her still lingering on my tongue and the phantom memory of her body wrapped tightly around me.
I can’t breathe without this woman anymore.
And the truth is—I don’t even want to try.
My grip tightens around her jaw, thumb pressing lightly against the delicate column of her throat, forcing her gaze to mine. Her pupils are blown wide, drowning out the color of her eyes, as her chest rises and falls in shallow bursts. I grind my cock against her lower belly. There’s nothing more than a thin barrier of fabric separating us, and it takes all my restraint not to rip it away.
“I can’t do this anymore, Rina,” I rasp against her mouth, every word fractured between fevered kisses. “I can’t go another fucking minute without you.”
My hands shake as I tear at my pants, the drag of the zipper slicing through the charged silence of the bathroom. The clink of my belt buckle echoes like a gunshot, the sound ricocheting in the space between us. My other hand fists her dress, yanking it up with urgency as desperation frays the edges of my control. She gasps when I shove her panties to the side and then the slick heat of her wetness coats my fingers.
“Christ,” I groan. “You’re already wet for me.”
My voice isn’t just rough with need, it’s laced with something that’s both raw and deeper.
Fear.
Not of her.
But of what she means to me.
I press my forehead to hers, struggling to steady myself against the ache ripping through me.
“Say you don’t want this,” I growl. “Say it, and I’ll stop.”
Her lips part, but nothing comes out.
She’s still fighting herself.
I see it in the small tremor at the corner of her jaw and the way her body betrays every protest. The tilt of her hips. The way she sways closer, searching for contact even as her mind screams not to.