Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 47537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 158(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 158(@300wpm)
My long lashes flutter open and I stare directly ahead at his throat. The cords in his neck tighten and the dark stubble begs me to brush the tip of my nose against it, just to feel how sharp it is. “I know exactly who you are,” I whisper and although it feels true as each syllable slips out, so many questions in the back of my mind doubt my conviction.
His lips brush against mine and his smile plays against my parted lips. With the rustling of the sheets, his bottom teeth graze along my lower lip until he nips me.
The sound of shock and want mingle into a deadly concoction as I yelp, still on all fours, in only my panties. Still with my eyes closed.
His thumb brushes along my backside. “You left these on,” he says and the click of the heat turning on does nothing to soothe my already heated skin.
Swallowing, I nod my head, expecting to feel him there, but he must be leaning back. My core is hot and my nipples harden. Without his touch, I could be alone on the bed for all I know, but I haven’t heard the bed signal his movements.
“A touch for a touch?” he asks, giving away his position which is only inches from me.
“Yes.” The single word falls from my lips both light and heavy, with an eagerness and yet with apprehension.
His heat wraps around me as he leans in closer, the rough pad of his thumb tracing the curve of my breast and then the other. I whimper, my thighs tightening and my needs climbing higher.
“I have to warn you, Delilah,” he whispers and the roughness of his stubble scrapes against the curve of my neck. It’s then I can feel his bare skin against mine, my forearm pressed against his chest. Sweeping my hair to the side and exposing my back, he nips my neck and presses his hand against my upper back.
My head lowers in a bow, my ass still raised. “I’m going to take my time with you,” he says and with the dizziness of a lust-filled cocktail flooding my veins I moan in response. My cheek brushes against his thigh. I’m not naïve. He’s naked on the bed and his cock is near. I part my lips, willing and ready and lift my hips to accept him, but his hand bears down firmly against my shoulder blades, pushing me against the sheets.
The sound of him stroking himself is followed by the head of his cock being pressed against my lips.
“Lick it clean,” he commands and my tongue darts out to taste the salty bit of precum that’s waiting for me.
He strokes his cock again, his knuckles brushing against my skin.
“I’ll have every bit of you,” he says but it’s almost as if it’s a promise to himself. I take his words for what they are, a hell-bent eagerness for this man to consume me.
“Yes,” I say and breathe out, feeling everything slip away. My sanity included.
It’s not until he places his lips at the shell of my ear to tell me, “But you didn’t beg,” that I think it won’t happen. He won’t thrust himself inside of me and take what he wants.
I open my eyes only to stare at my own grip on the edge of the bed. The sound of his footsteps rounding the mattress is barely heard over my pounding heart.
“I told you that you’d beg for me, that you’d feel deprived without me inside of you,” he says and my response is right there, so close and so wanting to be heard, but I can’t speak.
“It’ll be fun to play with you, though.”
He keeps his promise, taking his time until I’m wrung out and begging. Even then … he still doesn’t take me.
According to him, I didn’t beg fast enough, and I don’t crave him enough. Yet.
Even when I whimper that I need him, it’s not enough.
Delilah
The ache between my thighs is unrelenting. Even in the hard chair of the interrogation room, I can barely sit without feeling him. His fingers played with me, toying and testing. Leaving me satisfied, aching, but wanting more.
My cheeks are stained with a heat that would reveal a harlot to anyone who dared to pry. The sarcastic huff notes the ridiculousness of my thoughts. Given that I’m sitting across from a man who’s attempting to pin a murder on me, my focus needs to be anywhere but on Marcus.
“My mother?” I ask Detective Skov. His dark brown eyes are just slightly lighter than his thick hair. It’s grown out an inch at the top and not at all tamed. Along with his overgrown stubble, on the cusp of being a beard, the man looks like he doesn’t give a damn about rules and regulations. I’ve given him my explanation more than a handful of times now. Each time he asks nearly the same questions.