Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 131926 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131926 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
It screams for him as wetness floods me. There are too many clothes between us and not enough time. I need to feel him inside of me. I need to crush this ache that I’ve felt for him since the second I met him.
Dante. Fucking. Carver.
Take the goddamn wheel.
I give up control and let him take whatever the fuck he needs.
Who gives a shit about the sound of blood dripping down the drain? Who cares that a dead body hangs just beside us, still with a gentle sway? Who cares that my body aches from beating the living shit out of him with a baseball bat?
All that matters is his lips on mine and his hands roaming over my body.
Carver reaches around me and grips the material of my cropped tank before peeling it over my head. It’s instantly thrown away, and as one hand comes down on my bare skin, the other unhooks my bra with a simple flick of his wrist.
My bra falls between us and he pushes in even closer, needing the feel of my skin right up against his, just as desperately as I need it. “Fuck, Carver,” I groan, panting heavily. “Touch me.”
He complies all too easily, and within seconds, his hand is at my waist, slipping inside my jeans. He finds my center and with a quick, hard thrust, pushes two thick fingers straight inside my dripping core.
I groan deep, his lips falling to the sensitive skin of my neck as his fingers work my pussy like magic. He winds me up so easily and it’s as if he knows my body better than I do. “Winter,” he breathes my name so softly, his breath skimming across my ear and making everything inside of me clench.
His fingers slide in and out of me, curling at just the right spot as my pussy drenches his hand with my excitement. I grind against him, needing more, but if I push it too hard, I’ll be coming within seconds.
Carver works my body as though he was fucking made for it. His fingers pinch my pebbled nipples while his tongue roams over the soft, sensitive skin below my ear, answering every silent prayer I send his way.
There’s no other way to put it. It’s simple. Dante Carver is a fucking god and I’m the luckiest girl who ever lived.
A soft moan slips from between my lips, and as if calling for him, as if he can’t possibly get enough, his lips come right back to mine.
My body burns, my release building higher and higher. “Come on, Winter,” he urges me in a deep, guttural groan, his voice speaking to the darkest places within me and filled with a demanding authority. “I want your tight little pussy to come on my fingers. Give me what I need.”
His thumb flicks over my clit and sends an electric shock shooting right through me as he pinches my nipples. A loud gasp pulls from deep within me, and as he slams his fingers back inside and massages my walls, my body falls apart beneath him.
My orgasm tears through me, so much wilder, hotter, and louder than the explosion at Sam’s house. “FUCK, CARVER,” I cry, the desperation coming through loud and clear in my voice.
Carver doesn’t let up, he keeps moving his fingers, keeps flicking my clit, and massaging my walls as my pussy clenches around his thick fingers, convulsing with wild, erratic movements.
When I finally come down from my high, Carver’s fingers slip out of me and I instantly miss his touch. His head tilts forward, his forehead leaning against mine for just a moment. Satisfaction pulses through me but I get the exact same vibe from him, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d wonder if he was the one who just came within an inch of his life.
I reach for him, curling my legs around his waist and drawing him back into me, so ready for what else he has in store, but he pulls back. His gaze sweeps away and in an instant he pulls his shirt back over his head and shoves my bra and tank into my hand. “Go,” he tells me.
I just stare, the confusion pulsing through me. “What do you mean?” I question, unable to take my eyes off him as he distracts himself with the shit on the table. “We were doing something here. I wasn’t nearly done.”
“Yeah, you were,” he tells me. “You asked me to touch you. I did, and now we’re done.”
I just stare a little longer, watching as he takes a blade and walks across to Sam’s hanging body. The blade slices through the binds with ease and Sam drops to the ground with a heavy thud, the blood beneath him splattering across the room.
How could he be so dismissive?