Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71444 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71444 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
When we’re inside the room, Hyde whirls to slam the door. Kinkaid and Rock are both there, just beyond the threshold. “Hyde,” Rock says.
Hyde shuts the door, and then we’re alone.
***
I expect him to force me against the wall and kiss me with the primal hunger of a trapped man who has been starved of human contact. I expect him to touch me with anger and desperation. But he does none of that. Instead, he sits on the bed and gathers me against him, just breathing into my neck in terrible gasping pants. I run my fingers through his dark hair, scraping his scalp with my nails, and he closes his eyes, growing calmer and stiller with each pass. My body trembles, but I try to fight it because I don’t want him to be alarmed. I want to be in control of this situation as much as I can be.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
It’s pure instinct that drives me to want to take care of him, a deep sense that he probably didn’t get much love or attention when he was a vulnerable little boy in need of it. I had Kennedy, and she had me—we softened the edges of the world for each other. But who did Hyde have? Maybe no one. The way he melts into my arms, the way his defenses drop, tells me I could be right.
His rough palms skate over my thighs, then over the curve of my hips and waist, and higher beneath the shirt.
“You smell like Rock,” he says gruffly, but then his fingers graze my nipples, and we both groan.
In a fluid motion, he rolls to his back, taking me with him, and then he nestles us on our sides, with his face still buried in my neck. I want to look into his eyes to gauge how he’s feeling, but he seems uncomfortable with direct eye contact. He pushes up my shirt until it’s bunched over my torso, and then he’s shuffling lower on the bed to mouth my breasts. The first contact is so hot that my instinct is to grip the back of his neck, just in case I need to pull him away. Then his lips wrap around my nipple, and he groans, long, low and desperate, against me.
His big hand spreads across my back, holding me in place as he mouths my nipple into a tight peak, and then he sucks. Well, it’s more like he suckles in tight little pulls that send sensations skittering down my spine and between my thighs. His sole focus is on my breast, and when I gaze down at him, I find his eyes closed, his lashes kissing his cheeks, and a look of deep contentment softening his features.
For most men, this kind of foreplay is just a precursor to touching below the waist, but Hyde’s hands don’t roam. Instead, it’s almost like she slips into some kind of trance. At first, I’m too scared to let my hands wander, but then I brave stroking my fingers across his scalp again, and he hums contentedly at the contact. Minutes pass, him tugging at my nipple with his cruel lips and me making grooves through his thick dark hair, and I wonder what Rock and Kinkaid are thinking. Are they waiting outside the door to check for my voice, or have they gone back to their man-film, uncaring?
Somehow, even though I’ve only been in their company for a matter of hours, I’m confident it’s the former.
Hyde is so concentrated on his actions for so long that I don’t think he’ll go further, so when his hand wanders and his fingers find the soft curls between my legs, I flinch. He hums again as though he’s trying to soothe me, then gently caresses just the curls as though he’s seeking comfort there rather than trying to arouse me.
I’m aroused anyway, imagining his thick fingers with their nails chewed to the quick like mine, delving deeper, seeking where I’m warm, wet, and waiting. I’ve had two orgasms today, but it hasn’t quelled my hunger. If anything, I’m like an addict seeking another hit.
Gazing down at Hyde, at the way his shoulder bunches, his inked forearm concentrated on its gentle movements, I swallow back tears. He’s not looking for a quick release or to pull an explosive orgasm from my body. It’s like he wants comfort. He’s like a kid with a blankie, a kid who isn’t loved enough, craving the simplest of human touches.
I give him time as he lulls me into a dazed half-sleep with the shallow tugs of his lips and his tentative touch at the apex of my thighs. I moan in my throat, and he does, too.
And when I forget he’s a big dangerous prisoner, and I’m a tiny woman who’s been bought for his pleasure, I let my hands wander over his neck and into the stretched collar of his white t-shirt, and my fingers find lumpy skin forming scared ridges. Before I draw back, he rears up over me and grabs both my hands in one of his. Pinned in place, I pant up at a furious Hyde whose eyes have become the color of coal and whose calm, contented face has twisted into something menacing. “Hyde,” I gasp as adrenaline blasts through my veins, setting my heart into a frantic rhythm. His name has never felt more appropriate than at this moment.