Total pages in book: 183
Estimated words: 174715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 874(@200wpm)___ 699(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 174715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 874(@200wpm)___ 699(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
“You don’t know. You felt safe and then the rug was pulled out from under you when your father died. I’m not going to let that happen. You have me now. I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“I can,” he says, his voice deep, rich, his tone absolute. “I will.”
“People die.”
“Yes, but if I die, you’ll know how much I loved you. You’ll know I’m still with you.” He cups my face. “But you don’t get to get rid of me that easily. Whatever waits for us here, there, or anywhere, we’ll get through it together. That’s what husbands and wives do.”
Warmth and calm wash over me. “Husband,” I whisper.
“Wife,” he replies, his gaze raking over my lips, and lifting. “About that zipper.”
“Take me to our hotel and I’ll show you how it works.”
“I can’t wait that long,” he counters, reaching for said zipper.
I catch his hand. “Cole,” I warn urgently. “You have to wait.”
I’ve barely finished that reprimand before his mouth is crashing down on mine and he’s kissing me, his tongue stroking my tongue. One of his hands settles at the base of my spine, molding me close, all those hard, sinewy parts of him pressed to all the soft parts of me and I moan. Another second later, and my zipper is open, and he’s pressed my hands over my head, his fingers dragging over the thin lace of my barely-there bra, teasing my nipples.
“We can’t do this here,” I whisper, and I mean it, despite the moan that rolls from my throat, as his fingers slide between my legs, heat pooling low in my belly and spreading to the touch of his fingers.
“And yet we are,” he says.
Voices sound just outside the door, and I panic. “Cole,” I hiss.
He reacts, and in an instant, his arm is around my waist and he’s pulling me into a long, narrow stall, shutting the heavy door and locking it. Women, two I think, enter the bathroom, and Cole steps back in front of me, his cheek pressing to mine as he whispers. “I’m going to make you come with them standing right there.”
My fingers curl on his chest. “No,” I silently whisper, but he swallows the protest with a deep lick of his tongue, and just like that, he’s grabbed my panties and yanked them away.
And then he’s kneeling on one knee, his lips pressing to my belly, and the effect is an adrenaline rush up and down my body. My fingers tangle in his hair and I tell myself it’s to pull him away, but his tongue flicks my belly button and I bite my lip to silence my pleasure. I know where that tongue is headed and it’s almost too much.
I manage to tug his hair after all, but it only seems to challenge him. He lifts my leg to his shoulder, his mouth closing down on me, and sensations spiral through me. I cave to the pleasure, my head falling back on the wall.
Then he is licking and exploring, merciless in his attention, his thumb stroking my clit, tongue delving in and out of my sex—around and around and everywhere. And when it’s too much, just too much for this place, his fingers stretch me, pressing inside me, and I’m arching into him.
My pulse thunders in my ears, and the women just keep talking. They won’t stop, but neither will Cole, but then again, I don’t want him to stop. Every spot he touches and licks is bliss, and I’m right there on the edge of that mountaintop, so very close to tumbling over.
A ball of tension forms low in my belly and spreads, and then I’m there, my belly and sex clenching, and remotely I hear my breathing, a soft moan I cannot control escaping my throat. Pleasure overtakes me, stealing time, and then I go limp.
Cole eases my leg down, re-connecting my zipper, and sliding it up my body until it’s back in place, and he’s standing in front of me, kissing me, the taste of champagne and me on his lips before he whispers, “That was so damn hot.”
My eyes go wide at the idea that the women can hear us. “They left,” he promises. “Let’s go back to the room and fuck. Then we’ll call your mother and fuck again. Then we’ll pack and fuck again. And finally, we’ll go home. Because, sweetheart, as much as I love fucking you in Paris, I want you in my bed, which is now our bed.”
The aftermath of my orgasm mixed with all the male perfection of this man, who is my husband, and best friend, fills me. It’s then that it hits me that as perfect a Cinderella story our wedding and Paris honeymoon were, the real fairy tale is knowing that he’s no fair-weather Prince. It’s knowing that in an imperfect world, Cole can still make everything perfect. That I am not alone, and never will be again.