Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Or maybe he’s never kissed this way before.
I grunt at the thought, and a shiver sparks down my spine.
I fist a hand in his wet hair and yank his head back to thrust my tongue down his throat. A quiet moan breaks out of him and shoots straight to my wound-up chest.
Fuck.
Fucking hell.
Fuuuck.
I think I could kiss him like this for eternity.
Preston grips my jacket harder, trying to pull me closer despite shaking so violently, he can barely stand. The rain slicks between our mouths, his breath hot against the cold night air, steam rising from our skin where we touch.
“Marcus—” he says, his voice cracking.
I cut him off with another kiss as he groans in my mouth. It’s deeper this time, swallowing whatever he was about to say.
It’s better if he stays quiet. He only pisses me off when he speaks, and I don’t want to deal with that tonight.
My other hand slides to the back of his neck, cold skin flashing hot under my palm. I can feel his frantic, uneven pulse there, as if his body can’t contain whatever is happening between us.
“Fuck,” I breathe against his lips, my forehead touching his. “You can’t just keep kissing your way back to me.”
“I can try,” he whispers, barely audible, as he brushes his cold lips against mine, caging me exactly where he wants me.
“I thought you didn’t like kissing me.”
His droopy eyes flit to my lips. “Maybe I lied.”
“Fucking hell,” I growl deep in my throat. “I’m supposed to be mad at you.”
“You are,” he mutters, his fingers digging into my throat. “That’s why it feels…good. You make it feel good.”
Something inside me breaks.
I call it the Preston complication, but truly, maybe I’m the complicated one.
Because as I stare in his soft eyes, I know that I’d let this prick have whatever the fuck he wants.
My sanity included.
“Do you know what you’re saying, Preston?” The words scrape out low in my throat, tight and uncontrolled.
He brushes his lips against mine again, a single breath, a warmth that floods the cold, wet rain. “Hm.”
“Oh, baby. You’re truly fucked.”
Preston slams me against him as he whispers, “Maybe you are.”
Perhaps that’s true.
Perhaps I’m driving down a dark road with no headlights on.
But if I get to crash into him, it’s worth it.
After tonight, Preston will be fully, categorically, and undeniably fucking mine.
25
PRESTON
If anyone asks me how the hell I made it here, I wouldn’t have the answer.
It just happened.
Blame my brain.
My nonexistent sanity.
And this asshole of a man I can’t seem to possess the physical ability to resist.
No idea how the fuck we ended up in his room, because he was kissing me all the way up, devouring my face, pulling on my hair, helping me get rid of my wet clothes.
They were littering the stairs as he shoved and pressed me against the wall, touching me everywhere, kissing anywhere his lips could reach until I was shaking.
But God fucking dammit. I thought I was intense, and I am. You should see me when I kill. Even Jude says I turn into this manic person with zero fucking chill. But that’s mild compared to the force of nature that is Marcus Osborn.
He doesn’t just kiss me, he seems to be on a mission to own me, his fingers digging into my jaw or fisting in my hair, his tongue not only warring with mine, but taming it.
His hands don’t just remove my clothes, they strip me bare as he thrusts them into the fabric of my soul, toying, curling, on the verge of spilling my insides right before his feet.
It isn’t until he shoves me onto the bed, my hard cock pointing toward the ceiling, that I realize I’m fully naked and he’s still wearing his jeans and a damp white shirt that sticks to his taut muscles.
I prop up on my elbows as he watches me while unbuttoning his jeans, his breaths ragged and rough in the silence, only punctuated by the pouring rain outside.
His damp dark hair falls in haphazard strands across his forehead from how much I pulled and raked my fingers through it.
“You know how you look right now?” His low-spoken words send a shiver down my spine, and I have to force my eyes from his jeans to his face.
“Don’t say I look pretty,” I grumble, that familiar tightness churning my stomach.
He tilts his head to the side. “Why not?”
“I just don’t want to hear it,” I whisper. “Not now.”
I’m scared if he says it while looking at me with those dark, hungry eyes, I’ll be thrown back to that room of stars where I couldn’t breathe.
The idea sends a rush of nausea up my throat.
“Hmm” is the only sound he releases as he lifts his shirt off and tosses it somewhere behind him.
Then I watch with a harsh, choked breath as he pulls down his jeans and boxer briefs in one go, then kicks them away, standing in front of me completely naked.