Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Meanwhile, my stepbrother sets his fork down and leans over the counter. His hand comes up, slow and deliberate, and cups my jaw, thumb pressing a gentle line along my cheekbone. His skin is warm, the pressure careful, but there’s no doubt who’s in charge.
“I’ll take care of you, sweetheart,” he growls, and there’s a note in his voice that I’ve never heard before. Something that feels intimate, like a secret he’s letting me in on. “There’s no reason to be nervous about your first time. You’re mine now so you don’t have to worry.”
I look at his hand on my face, then back at his eyes, which are so blue and direct that I feel myself sinking. My heart is running a two-minute mile, my body electric and hot in ways that make me want to run and never stop, or else never move again. Yet I feel safe in this space with him and mentally hand him the reins, my spine sagging a bit as relief floods my veins.
“Okay,” I whisper. I don’t know what else to say.
He lets his thumb rest there, just for a second longer, and then pulls away, the loss of contact making me shiver. He picks up his fork, takes another bite of salmon, and looks at me like he’s trying to memorize everything about this moment.
We eat in silence for a while, the only sounds the tick of silverware and the low susurration of the city through the windows. I keep sneaking glances at him, the way the light off the kitchen throws shadows along his jaw, the way his hands move—efficient, precise, but never hurried. He finishes his plate before I’m even halfway done, then sits back, folds his arms, and studies me.
“You did well today, Kayleigh,” he says finally. “You’ve adapted beautifully.”
It’s the closest thing to praise I’ve ever heard from him, and it fills me up in a way that’s both embarrassing and euphoric.
I smile, and it’s real.
“Thank you,” I murmur, a blush creeping on my cheeks.
He stands, pushes his chair back, and walks around the island. His footsteps are slow, but my pulse picks up anyway. He stops next to me, close enough that I can smell the faint trace of his cologne, the salt from his skin. He extends his hand, palm up, and waits.
I know what he wants.
I put my hand in his.
The grip is warm, strong, and absolute.
He doesn’t say anything as he leads me down the hallway toward my tiny bedroom.
Maybe I’m on the back foot.
Maybe I have no control over what’s going to happen next.
But I can feel the future unspooling between us, tight and bright as a wire, and for the first time all day, I’m not nervous at all.
I’m ready to be his.
The hallway is short, maybe ten steps end to end, but with Trevor’s hand on mine, it feels like a tunnel to somewhere darker and more absolute than anywhere I’ve ever been. His grip is gentle, but there’s no option of pulling away, and when he stops at the door to my so-called bedroom, I feel my legs go boneless. The room is a shoebox: it has that same airless, windowless vibe you find in server rooms and walk-in coolers. Still, it’s mine, and this is where Trevor wants to be.
He closes the door behind us, lets the latch click, and then turns to face me.
He takes his time looking, which is worse than if he had just rushed me. His eyes linger on my face, my hair, the way I’m clenching and unclenching my hands at my sides. He doesn’t move for a moment, just lets me squirm in the silence.
“You’re scared,” he says, and he says it softly.
I shake my head. “Not really.”
He smiles. “Liar.”
But there’s no meanness in it. He steps closer, raises his hand, and tucks a stray piece of hair behind my ear. I can feel the pads of his fingers, rough and hot. His palm grazes my jaw, then settles on the curve of my shoulder.
“Relax,” he says. “You’ll like it.”
I nod, but it’s barely a nod at all.
He doesn’t rush. He takes the buttons of my dress one by one, working from the top down, and with each one undone I feel a tiny flick of cool air on my skin. His fingers are steady, clinical, but there’s an undercurrent of hunger just beneath the surface. By the time he gets to my waist, the fabric is loose enough that a single shrug sends it slithering down my body, pooling at my feet.
The next thing he removes is the bra. It’s a ridiculous push-up, one cup hanging by a thread already, but he peels it off with a touch so sure it makes me gasp. The straps catch on my elbows, then drop. My breasts are huge and pale in the lamplight, nipples pink and stiff from arousal. This man drives me crazy, and he hasn’t even touched me yet!