Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 79991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Is there anybody who could resist something like that? And the deep, primal sensuality of his voice only pushes me closer to the edge. Watching him, feeling him, hearing him—it all builds up together until I’m helpless against it, riding a wave of sensation that starts to crest before I know what’s happening.
“That’s right,” he grunts, his breathing faster now. “Tighten up for me, baby. Milk my cock. Take every drop. I don’t want a drop wasted.”
But should I? Is this right? Am I only going to end up regretting this? Those thoughts are quickly pushed aside when the tension finally breaks, and I gasp in surprise and pleasure as bliss washes over me, rippling through my arms and legs and every inch of my body.
“Good girl,” he grunts, losing his rhythm and driving himself harder and faster until he throws his head back and goes still, growling through clenched teeth, his face flushing and tendons standing out on his neck before he finally collapses onto his forearms and rolls away.
I feel it, then. The wetness. His seed. It’s on my thighs and dripping out of me. Dammit. What am I supposed to do? He can’t keep coming inside me. Does the man have a problem with condoms or something? I know better than to bring it up. We’ve never discussed the use of protection, even though I know we should.
Maybe once we’re married, I’ll have a little more leeway. Maybe I can use Plan B or something like that when he refuses to pull out.
Because there is no way I’m going to be stuck in this insane family for the rest of my life. A baby with Enzo would be an end for me.
26
ENZO
How does a man normally feel on his wedding day? I imagine he’d be nervous. It would be a good kind of nerves, though, wouldn’t it? At least, if he was secure in the choice he’d made. If he knew the woman set to meet him at the altar was the right woman. The one woman he couldn’t live without. Nerves would still be natural; fear of standing up in front of so many people, making a mistake, or dropping the ring. Something like that.
If he wasn’t sure she was the right woman, though. It would be a whole other type of nervousness. Apprehension. Anxiety. A man might question everything about himself and everything about the chain of events that brought him to this moment. Standing in front of a mirror, wearing a new suit, minutes away from pledging his life to a stranger who hates him.
Because, of course, that’s how this will turn out. She might have warmed up to me somewhat, but the underlying hatred is still there. Resentment I can’t blame her for. I took her from her life without thinking. I was reacting. I was insulted and imagined I was taking it out on her father.
I had no idea I was forcing us both into an arrangement we couldn’t back out of.
It doesn’t matter now, does it? My motives. It changes nothing. After all, does a drunk driver’s regret bring back the life of the person they killed in an accident? Even if she doesn’t hate me the way she did at first, she’s going to. A little more every single day she wakes up next to me, the symbol of how she lost all control over her life. The night she first looked into my eyes was the night she signed her life over.
The night I signed my life over, as well. I just didn’t know it.
At least no one can ever say I didn’t look my best today. A trip to the barber followed by a visit to the tailor to make sure everything was fitted properly have left me looking impeccable if I do say so myself. At least she’ll have a husband who looks worthy of her when it comes time to stand together in front of that minister and tell a bunch of lies about being devoted to each other until death.
She deserves so much better than this. And there is the peril of allowing myself to get closer to her. Now that I know her better, there’s no avoiding the truth: I am in no way the man she needs or deserves, but there’s nothing we can do about it.
I have a duty to my family, my grandfather, whose voice rings out across the vast space downstairs as he requests drinks and food. He’s in high spirits, finally on the verge of witnessing everything he’s worked toward for years coming to fruition. I guess he can’t be blamed for cracking jokes and taking bets on how soon it will be before my beautiful bride gives him a great-grandchild. He’s not going to let that go, not that I would expect him to. I know him too well.