Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
“I thought—” He makes a low sound of grief. “You’re so beautiful and warm. And wet. Samantha, you need to stop clenching like that. It makes me—”
“I’m sorry,” I say on a breathless laugh. I’m on the other side of the looking glass now, my old life strange and boring in light of the terrifying wonder before me. “I’m not doing it on purpose.”
One thrust of his hips and he pushes in another inch.
I won’t survive it. “How much more?”
“I’m not fucking you,” he says, unsteady, but there’s no conviction in his voice. How can there be when he forces himself another inch?
He’s a large man, but I never worried that he wouldn’t fit inside me. Men and women perform this act every day. Surely I can figure it out. The theory is nothing more than a smooth water’s surface—a mirage replaced with sudden violence by the reality of him. His shoulders loom above me. His muscular thighs hold mine open as wide as they can go. And his cock burrows deeper into my body.
This is everything I’ve ever wanted, and now that it’s here, I can’t take it. My body refuses. I wriggle instinctively, trying to get away, to find relief, and he clasps my shoulders in an impossible grip. “No, don’t,” he gasps, green eyes hazy. “Don’t move. Not like that.”
“Hurts,” I say, barely able to squeeze out the word.
“Sorry. Sorry.” He drops his head to taste my shoulder in an openmouthed kiss. “I need to get off you, to stop touching you. To stop fucking you. I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t stop.
His hips pull away only long enough to let cool air soothe my tender skin. Then he pushes back inside with a grunt. I might as well try to stop a boulder rolling down a mountain, picking up speed as it goes. And I don’t want him to stop, not really. It’s only that I want this terrible pressure to ease. It makes me pant and writhe.
I don’t know whether he’s exceptionally large or I’m exceptionally small. Maybe both. It would be only right that we would be mismatched this way, when everything else about us is also wrong. We are not meant to be together; it’s only the force of our wills that makes it work.
“No, no,” he mutters to himself, fighting it even as he fucks me, thrusting deep inside me, going slow enough that I feel every ounce of friction against my intimate walls. His eyes are wild and angry and somehow frightened. “Make me stop,” he says.
I press a kiss to the only part of him I can reach—the bulge of his pecs.
He flinches beneath my lips.
My chest aches with something that has nothing to do with his cock. I’m hurting for the man who thought I’d leave for my tour with a cheerful goodbye and never come back. For the man who thought that would be best for me, as if he’s been nothing but a vending machine, a place where I got safety and comfort without ever caring about him in return.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “I want this. I want you.”
With a groan he thrusts hard inside me. I can only close my eyes, tears leaking down my cheeks. Thank God it’s too dark for him to see. He’s not looking anyway; his head is down, hips moving swift and fierce. His shout is both masculine power and utter surrender. His body turns taut, straining against me, pushing me into the mattress so hard I can’t breathe.
A sense of victory expands in my chest. It’s like we climbed the tallest mountain or fought an entire army. That’s what we did together, and I stroke his head, feeling the impossible softness as his muscled body weighs me down.
He stirs in slow degrees, his hips moving experimentally, his cock nudging me in an intimate place. I wait for him to pull away. He’ll probably leave the bed now. I have no illusions about his reaction to this. I’m the one who started touching him, knowing it would lead to sex. I’m the one who made the overture. He’s the one who will retreat.
Except he doesn’t leave my body. Instead he thrusts back inside, as if we’re still having sex. As if he didn’t just flex and spurt warm liquid into my body.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“Losing,” he says.
“But didn’t we just—”
“One time isn’t enough,” he says, his tone dark with promise.
It sounds like a threat, except the large pulses of cum smooth the way for his cock. They give me a sense of warmth that wasn’t there before. Then he shifts his angle slightly, and his cock finds a place inside me that makes me arch and cry out.
“Wait,” I say, but he doesn’t wait. He does it again, finding the place with a carnal knowledge. How can he know my body better than I do? My secret muscles clench helplessly around him, and he answers with a flex of his cock.