Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83039 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83039 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“So close.” Monroe grimaced, face contorting with the effort of holding his orgasm back.
“Do it. Now,” I ordered, yanking him even more forcefully against me. Holding back was the last thing I wanted. Rather, I needed every damn thing he had to give me. His cock painted a damp stripe on my stomach, and still, I wanted more. “Come on.”
“Kiss me.” Monroe’s voice was ragged, and I was powerless to do anything other than comply, devouring his mouth with a ferocity that surprised even me. I sucked on his tongue and rubbed his ass. My abs tightened, hamstrings straining, every muscle waiting. And then he broke, thrusting fast and hard against me, dragging me along for the ride. “Oh fuck. There. Right there.”
“Me too. Me too.” And what a ride it was, like catching air off the biggest ramp at the skate park, that feeling of badass triumph and near-flight and reckless energy all rolled together, and I never wanted to come down.
However, Monroe was already stepping back, mouth twisting. “Fuck. Fuck. We—”
Still feeling tingles in my hands and feet, I groaned. “Can’t you have thirty seconds of afterglow before the we-shouldn’t-have-done-that speech?”
“I was going to say we’re a total mess. But yes, that too. Hell, Knox. We can’t let that happen again.”
“Why not?” Having had the barest of tastes, I wanted the whole damn buffet, every hour I could wring from this most confounding man. “Despite what you keep insisting, we’re both consenting adults, rooming together for the summer, and who the fuck cares what we get up to here? Neither of us is looking for forever. Why not have some summer fun?”
“Because.” Stripping off his T-shirt, Monroe mopped at his come-spattered stomach. And damn, he had one fine chest. Fit. Lightly hairy. Perfection. And I’d happily tell him if he’d stop listing all the reasons we weren’t already onto a second helping of orgasms. “Your dad. My friends. It’s complicated.”
“You’ve never done anything on the down-low before?” I gave him a pointed look because he’d previously mentioned Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, and for a guy who didn’t do relationships, he had to have had his share of secret hookups.
“You know I have. And I hated it. Hated hiding. I’m not…” He paced away, then spun on his heel to stare at me, eyes heated but mouth tense. “Hell. You look all fucked out, and all I can think is how I want you again.”
“So?” I smiled but kept my tone bored. I was tired of all his reasons. Anything as good as what we’d done needed dozens of repeats, not excuses. “Have me.”
“It’s not that easy.” He made a noise that echoed my own. Damn it. Even our frustration was in sync. “I…need to clean up. And think. Mainly that.”
“Okay.” I shrugged. I’d said I wouldn’t beg, and I was going to stick to that. Either he’d come around, or he’d keep throwing up barriers. Regardless, he had to make his own choices. I’d deal no matter what, but I sure hoped he’d get out of his own way while we still had time to make it the best damn summer of both our lives.
“I…um. I’ll figure out some late lunch for us. Might have to run to the store.” Still clutching his shirt, Monroe backed toward the open door. “I’m sorry.”
Funny. The excuses didn’t faze me, but the apology hurt, landing square on some tender spot in my chest. I didn’t want him to be sorry. I wanted him warm and willing and desperate for more. Nothing had ever felt as good as dancing and making out with Monroe had, and it was the kind of wonderful I refused to apologize for. I’d kissed and danced plenty, but the kind of connection I’d found in his arms was rare indeed. Sorry felt like the worst kind of brush-off, and as he retreated down the long upstairs hall toward his room, I both wanted him to stay gone a good long while and to come racing back. Fuck. I truly was a mess.
Chapter Ten
Knox
“You need to eat.” Monroe strode into the primary bedroom, where I’d stripped off the last of the wallpaper and was working on wall prep and priming. The walls were in poor condition after years of wallpaper, so the primer was necessary. And, as usual, I’d gotten into a groove working. I supposed it was past dinner time, but I was still surprised by Monroe holding a plate of steaming food.
“What’s this?” I gestured at the plate, but I meant him. He’d been scarce all afternoon since our little dance-party orgasm fest. And now he was back, neatly pressed short-sleeve shirt, jeans in far better shape than any I owned, and loafers rather than sneakers. I had no idea how to interpret the food gesture, and confusion made my voice sharp. “You made me dinner?”