Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
His laugh is low. “We’ll see.”
Then, his mouth is on my neck, teeth scraping over my pulse point, and I stop trying to think at all.
His hands make quick work of my blouse—buttons scattered, fabric shoved aside—and then he’s gently cupping my breasts through my bra, feeling their weight, thumbs circling my nipples until they’re hard and aching.
“God, your tits are unreal,” he says in a quiet rasp.
I arch into his touch, desperate for more, and he rewards me by yanking the bra down and replacing his thumbs with his mouth.
“Fuck,” I gasp. “Oh, fuck—”
“That’s the idea.” He switches to the other breast, sucking hard enough to make me cry out. “But first, I need to taste you again. Been dreaming about it all night. The way you sound when you come on my tongue.”
My god, the mouth on this man—in more ways than one.
He drops to his knees, right there in the kitchen, shoving my skirt up around my waist and hooking his fingers in my knickers. I lift my hips to help him drag them down, and then I’m bare to him, spread open on his kitchen counter like a meal.
“Look at you.” His voice is reverent and filthy all at once. “So wet already. So fucking ready. Your pussy is practically crying for me.”
“Nate, please—”
“Please what?” He presses a kiss to my inner thigh, maddeningly close to where I need him. “Tell me what you want.”
“You know what I want.”
“I want to hear you say it.” Another kiss, higher this time, his wet lips lingering. I can feel him smile against my skin. “Use your words, darlin’.”
I’m normally good at asking for things, normally good at telling people what I want and need. Even when I don’t feel confident, I can act it on a dime, because acting is the basis of being an agent. I’ve even been called bossy.
But I’ve never participated in this kind of dirty talk before, never vocalized this sort of need because I never had anyone to vocalize it to.
Yet, something about the way he’s looking at me—hungry and patient and utterly focused on giving me whatever I want—makes the words tumble out.
“I want your mouth on me,” I tell him, feeling myself slip into the new role of a woman who knows exactly what she wants. “I want you to make me come. Please, Nate, I need it. I—”
He doesn’t let me finish. His mouth seals over my clit, and I nearly scream, my hands flying to his hair, my thighs clamping around his head. He eats me like he’s starving for it, like I’m the only thing he’s ever wanted and he’s been denied until now, his tongue working in devastating circles while his fingers slide inside me.
“Oh God—oh fuck, right there, don’t stop—”
He doesn’t stop. He groans into me, the vibrations shooting through me like a rocket, then adds another finger, stretching me, curling against that spot that makes stars explode behind my eyes, and I feel the orgasm building with terrifying speed. It’s too much, too fast, all at once.
“I’m going to—” I can barely form words. “Nate, I’m—”
“Give it to me.” The command trembles against my flesh. “Come on my tongue. Let me feel it. Let me eat you up like fucking candy.”
Oh God.
The orgasm rips through me in waves, my whole body convulsing, my hands pulling his hair hard enough that it would hurt anyone else. He works me through it with his mouth and fingers, drawing out every last tremor until I’m boneless and gasping on his countertop, nearly sliding off into the abyss.
Then, he’s on his feet, lifting me into his arms like I weigh nothing before carrying me through the penthouse with long, determined strides. “I’m not done with you yet. I haven’t even started, baby.”
He throws me on the bed—actually throws me, like I’m a ragdoll—and I bounce once on the mattress before he’s on top of me, pinning me down with his weight and godly frame. His T-shirt is gone, stripped off somewhere between the kitchen and here, and I take a moment to appreciate the view—all those muscles, the trail of dark hair leading down into his jeans, the way his hard chest heaves with barely controlled need.
My God, he’s bloody gorgeous.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” he growls.
“So are you.”
He fixes that problem with impressive efficiency. My skirt disappears. My bra follows. His jeans hit the floor, and then he’s naked above me, and oh.
Oh.
I knew he was big. I felt it through his trousers, had him between my lips before we were interrupted, remember how my mouth had to strain so much, I felt I dislocated my jaw after. But seeing him like this, hard and thick and monstrously large, straining toward me like a rabid beast—
“Nervous?” He must see something in my face, something beyond the horny awe.