Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 33965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 113(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 113(@300wpm)
And I want him just like this, seconds from losing his mind because he can't take how good I make him feel. Me, little Ireland Fitzgerald, the only virgin in my graduating class.
"I don't come until you do, Ireland," he growls, moving faster. "That's how this works. You come all over my fucking cock, and then I do. But I don't get mine until you get yours."
"T-that's not a r-rule."
"It is in this bed." He leans down over me, taking my lips in a deep, hungry kiss. "My wife comes for me, or I don't."
I don't know what it is about those words and the possessive way he says them, but as soon as they leave his lips, an orgasm sparks in my womb. I cry out, gripping the sheets tight as it rolls through me, turning every single cell of my body into a pleasure center. Heat rushes through me, firing against my nerve endings. My toe curls. Lights pop and fizzle and dance behind my eyelids.
It goes on and on, one wave receding just in time for the next to knock me down. Crue rocks his hips through every single one, his voice keeping me tethered to earth as he croons praises in my ear, telling me what a good girl I am.
I peel my eyes open just in time to see him wrap his fist around his shaft, his eyes locked on the way my legs are splayed wide around his hips. He's staring right at my pussy, and I know he can see everything from this angle. He seems to really like the sight because he growls and starts jerking himself off, his hand flying up and down his cock.
I watch in fascination, unable to take my eyes off him.
Within seconds, he goes rigid. My name tumbles from his lips in an erotic groan I'm going to hear in my dreams for the rest of my freaking life. He comes hard, his seed spilling across my sex and upper thighs in hot ropes.
I gasp, my inner muscles clenching hard enough to qualify as a mini-orgasm. I don't know what prompts me to do it—instinct, perhaps—but I slip my hand down my body, swirling my fingers through the mess, and then bring them to my entrance.
"Fuck yes," he growls, another thick rope spilling from him when I push it inside me. "Put it all inside where it belongs, Ireland. Every last drop."
"Crue," I whimper, knowing darn well that we're playing a dangerous game here.
That doesn't stop me from obeying his demand.
It doesn't stop me from loving it, either.
An hour later, we're showered, which involved more orgasms—yay for me—and I'm dressed for the day. Crue isn't. He's lounging on the bed in his boxers, trying to entice me back into it with him.
I'm not falling for his tricks, though. We have things to do.
"Please get dressed," I plead. "Or at least give me the name of the judge who married us, and I'll go track him down myself." I think about it. "Maybe that's a better plan. You're likely to be recognized."
It's a miracle he wasn't recognized last night.
"Uh, why the fuck do we need to track down the judge, Ireland? He's a judge. He isn't going to go running to the press."
"If we catch him in time, we can convince him not to file the paperwork. Then we won't even need an annulment. It'll be like it never happened at all."
"An annulment?" Crue sits up slowly, his expression changing from mildly amused to outright pissed.
Crap.
"We're not getting a fucking annulment," he growls, jack-knifing off the bed.
I back up two steps, which doesn't seem to help calm him down any. He narrows his eyes, stalking me across the hotel room like he's a panther and I'm his prey. Danger and desire mingle in his gaze, and I'm not entirely sure which one captivates me most. It's a deadly combination on him, especially when he's still mostly naked.
"We're not getting a fucking divorce or any of that bullshit either. Forget it."
"That's not what I said," I protest, scurrying backward out of his reach. He's awful fast for a man with no pants. "I said we need to be careful about who we tell in case things don't work out."
"Which suggests you plan on leaving me." He backs me into a corner, a look of triumph overtaking his expression. Now that I've got nowhere to go, he prowls toward me slowly, playing with his food exactly like a predator. "You aren't fucking leaving me."
"I didn't say that either," I whisper, swallowing hard. Good grief. He's hot when he's cranky. And apparently, me trying to be logical is making him very, very cranky. But I wasn't talking about me leaving him. I was more worried about him deciding he didn't want to be tied to me for the rest of his life.