Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
She yanks at my shirt next, impatient, and I pull back only long enough to rip it off. The second my chest is bare, her hands are everywhere—nails scraping down my stomach, tracing the waistband of my jeans like she’s deciding how fast she wants this. I decide for both of us.
I haul her up, spin her, and press her back to my front, mouth at her ear. “Been thinking about all the dirty things to do to you and I have quite a list.”
Her laugh is breathless. “Prove it.”
Challenge accepted.
I flick her bra open with one hand, let it fall, and cup her breasts from behind, full, perfect, nipples already swollen. She drops her head back against my shoulder, moaning softly as I roll them between my fingers, until her hips are grinding against me in silent demand.
My other hand slides down her stomach, pops the button on her jeans, slips inside. She’s soaked through her panties, and the sound she makes when I stroke her over the fabric is filthy and desperate and mine.
“Jesus, Daisy.”
“Inside,” she whispers. “Now.”
I push the lace aside and sink two fingers into her, curling just right. Her knees buckle. I hold her up with an arm banded across her chest, working her slow and deep while my thumb finds her clit. She comes fast and hard, clenching around my fingers, my name a broken chant against my throat.
And I’m not even close to done.
She’s still trembling from the first orgasm, making it incredibly easy to strip her naked. I push her back down on the couch, spread her thighs, and hook her leg over my shoulder to lick into her. She tastes like everything I’m not supposed to need. I don’t stop until she’s yanking at my hair, thighs shaking, coming again with a cry that echoes off the high ceilings.
When I stand, she attacks my belt with shaking hands. I help, kicking jeans and boxer-briefs away. Her eyes drop to where I’m hard and aching for her, and she licks her lips, her beautiful, sumptuous lips.
“Condom?” she asks, voice wrecked.
“Wallet. Coffee table.”
She finds it in two seconds, rips it open with her teeth, rolls it down me with her supple hands. Then she pushes me back onto the couch and straddles me without hesitation.
We both groan when she sinks down, taking every inch until she’s seated fully and we’re nose to nose, breathing the same air. Her hands frame my face, and for one suspended second, we just stare.
Then she starts to move.
Slow at first, rolling her hips in a rhythm that makes my vision blur. I grip her waist, thumbs pressing into the dimples above her ass, guiding her harder, faster. The couch creaks beneath us. Her head falls back, breasts bouncing with every thrust, and I can’t resist. I lean forward, suck a nipple into my mouth, bite just hard enough to make her gasp and grind down harder.
“Grizz—fuck—right there—”
I slide a hand between us, circle her clit with my thumb, and she shatters again, clenching so tight around me I see stars. Two more thrusts and I follow, burying myself deep and coming with her name ripped out of my chest.
She collapses forward, forehead against mine, both of us slick with sweat and breathing heavily. I wrap my arms around her back and hold her there, feeling her heartbeat hammer against my ribs.
After a minute (or five), she lifts her head, hair wild, lips swollen, eyes soft enough to steal my breath.
She smiles, then carefully climbs off me, disposes of the condom with impressive efficiency, and curls back into my side. I tug a throw blanket over us both.
Casual, I remind myself. In fact, after my brain starts working again, I’ll gently try to get her out of here. That’s how casual this will be.
But then she shifts closer, one knee brushing mine, and every part of me that pretended to want simple and uncomplicated feels anything but.
I ignore that—for now. I look at her like I didn’t spend all day trying not to want exactly this.
Daisy shifts on the couch, turning so she’s angled toward me. We bask in the afterglow, spent and delirious. It’s times like these I understand why people smoke after sex.
“You seemed… distracted today,” she says. “During the game.”
The words are soft and observational, not accusatory.
“I wasn’t distracted,” I lie.
She arches a brow. “Come on, Grizz. I watched the whole game. You were off.” Her voice gentles. “And that cross-check from the Cougars defenseman? You just stood there. Didn’t throw a punch, didn’t even chirp at the guy. You gave him absolutely nothing.”
I tense visibly. I can’t tell her why. I can’t tell her she was in my head for sixty straight minutes, that every time I tried to lean into instinct or anger or the familiar violence that keeps me effective, her face—her laugh, her mouth, the way she looked at me when I told her about my father—kept replacing it.