Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Then he’s on his feet, closing the distance between us in three strides. His hands come up to frame my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones as he looks down at me with those winter-sky eyes.
“Are you sure?”
I nod. “I’m sure.”
He kisses me then, and it’s different from every other kiss we’ve shared. Softer. Slower. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of my mouth, the taste of me. Like this matters more than anything that’s come before.
I kiss him back with everything I have. All my fear and anger and desperate hope. All the feelings I’ve been trying to suppress since the moment he took me from my father’s house.
He lifts me easily, carries me to the bed. Lays me down on the quilt my mother made, the one piece of my old life I still have. Then he’s covering me with his body, still fully clothed, settling his weight between my legs.
I can feel him through his jeans, hard and ready. Can feel the heat of him, the solid strength. He props himself up on his forearms, looking down at me with something raw and vulnerable in his expression.
“Tomorrow,” he says quietly, “no matter what happens, remember this. Remember that you chose me. That we chose this.”
I reach up and trace the line of his jaw with my fingers. “I’ll remember.”
He leans down to kiss me again, and I feel his control cracking. Feel the desperation underneath the gentleness. He wants this as much as I do. Maybe more.
Calder
The kiss breaks something open inside me.
Not the careful control I’ve maintained for weeks. Not the walls I’ve built to keep her at a distance while still keeping her close. Something deeper. Something that’s been locked away so long I’d forgotten it existed.
Her mouth is soft under mine, yielding but demanding at the same time. Her hands slide up my chest to grip my shoulders, pulling me closer, and I feel the desperation in her touch. The need that mirrors my own.
I’ve wanted her completely for so long. Since that night outside her father’s house when she was eighteen and threw herself at me with all that innocent desire. Since I carried her into my truck bleeding and broken. Since she stood in that barn, defiant and terrified and more beautiful than anything I’d ever seen.
But I’ve only ever gotten parts of her. Her fear. Her anger. Her reluctant arousal. The drunken desperation on that kitchen counter when I took what I needed more than I gave what she deserved. Never all of her. Never this—her choosing me sober, choosing me with clear eyes and full knowledge of what she’s asking for.
My hands frame her face as I deepen the kiss, tasting her sweetness mixed with desperation and courage. She makes a sound low in her throat, part whimper, part moan, and it shoots straight through me. Her body is warm against mine, soft where I’m hard, and the thin cotton of her bra and panties might as well not exist for all the barrier they provide.
I can feel every curve of her. The swell of her breasts pressed against my chest. The heat radiating from between her legs. The way her heart hammers against her ribs, so fast I can feel it pulsing through her skin.
I break the kiss just long enough to breathe. “Saint.”
“Don’t talk.” Her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with need and trust. “I don’t want to think. I don’t want to be scared. I just want to feel something good. Something real.”
The honesty in her voice undoes me.
I press her back into the mattress, covering her body with mine. The weight of me settles between her legs, and she gasps at the contact, at feeling me hard and ready through my jeans pressed right against her core. Even through the thin cotton of her panties, I can feel how wet she is.
My hands slide up her sides, thumbs tracing the edge of her ribs. Her skin is impossibly soft, like something precious.
“I’m not stopping.” My voice comes out rough, possessive. “I’m going to take this desire you have and sharpen it until you’re begging for me. Until nothing is left in your head but my name.”
“I already want you.” Her hands fumble at the buttons of my shirt, urgent in her need.
I capture her wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand. The position arches her back and thrusts her breasts up toward me. “You want me. But I’m going to make you need me. There’s a difference.”
Her breath catches, and her eyes search mine. I see the moment she accepts what’s about to happen. What she’s choosing.
I release her wrists and sit back on my heels, stripping off my shirt in one motion. Her eyes trace the scars across my chest and ribs. Old marks from my father’s lessons.