Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
“We didn’t use protection.” I was staring at the ceiling, breathing heavily.
It was something I should’ve discussed the first time. Or the second. Or the third.
Was that how many times we’d had sex already? We’d both been greedy, desperate to explore every inch of the other’s skin, to release the pent-up tension that had been months in the making.
After the first time, I’d been utterly spent, covered in Beau’s cum. He’d leaned down, laid a sweet kiss on my lips. We both tasted of sweat and sex.
“You are fucking glorious,” he’d growled against my mouth.
Then he’d left, going to the bathroom for a wet washcloth to clean me. But he hadn’t done it right away. He’d hovered over me, staring at me greedily as I was bathed in the dim light coming from his bathroom.
“I need a minute,” he murmured, fisting the washcloth in his hands. “I need to commit this to memory, Hannah fucking Morgan, tangled in my sheets, well fucked, covered in my cum.”
My body hummed at the energy in his words, the force in his stare. I felt like a piece of art that someone was relishing. There was no need to move, to cover myself.
I just let Beau look.
It was an erotic act in and of itself, sending a burst of dopamine through my system.
Then he slowly cleaned himself off me, surprising me by lifting me into his arms once he was done.
My hands slung around his neck with ease, but I was not yet over the novelty of Beau touching me like that. Naked.
“I’m thinking we need a shower.’” His beard nuzzled into me as he walked us in the direction of the bathroom.
Who was I to disagree?
And even though I’d truly lost count of the orgasms I’d had and had just engaged in the best sex anyone had ever had on planet Earth, my body didn’t feel sated. I needed more of Beau. Needed to continue to feel him inside me, to fully process that this was happening.
And a not small part of me was deathly afraid that the sun would rise and this … spell would break. That the harsh light of day would tear away whatever magic created tonight.
If that were the case, I greedily wanted Beau as many times as he was physically able.
Thrice was already plenty impressive.
He hadn’t come inside me any of those times. He was making good on his previous promise to coat me in his cum. I wasn’t complaining.
The act of him doing that on my skin, in theory, should’ve been derogatory. But it didn’t feel like that with Beau. It felt deliciously sordid and empowering. And a shameful part of me loved that Beau was covering me, claiming me in such a carnal way.
“We didn’t,” Beau agreed to my earlier statement about protection.
Of course he wasn’t concerned. He was a man.
“And you’re not worried about that?” My question came out sharper than I intended, loaded with all the weight I carried from being a woman used by men.
I didn’t think Beau was like that. I prayed he wasn’t.
He propped himself up on his elbow, the light from the bathroom casting him in a subtle glow.
“Are you worried about that?” He explored my face.
I chewed my lip, wondering if I should lie to sound better. “No.” I decided to answer honestly. “I have the copper implant.” Prior to that, I’d been on the pill. Except I’d caught Waylon emptying the pills into the toilet one evening, smiling, telling me “he wanted a family.”
That was before the worst of the abuse started, but even then, I’d felt sick at the mere thought of bringing a child into the world. His child.
I hadn’t argued because I’d been clutched with hope that our story might turn into a good one. And because, in my heart of hearts, I knew it was a dangerous subject to argue about.
Waylon thought the gesture of emptying my pills was romantic. It felt suffocating. Like he was stealing my choices, especially while living in a state that did not provide other options for women who found themselves pregnant with a baby they might not want. A baby that might not be safe for them to have.
Even then, I knew the statistics around pregnant women being 35 percent more likely to be killed than when they weren’t pregnant.
I’d done my research that night after he’d gone to sleep then made an appointment to get the implant. Waylon didn’t know.
In the end, he’d thought I was “barren.” He had made noises about going to doctors, doing IVF, but I knew he’d never make good on those promises. For once, being poor protected me.
I’d had the implant even after we’d divorced, not thinking too much about it.
Until now.
“I also don’t have any STIs,” I informed Beau. Not sexy or romantic, but very sensible.