Imperfect Affections (Beauty in Imperfection #2) Read Online Charmaine Pauls

Categories Genre: Contemporary, Crime, Dark, Mafia, Romance, Suspense Tags Authors: Series: Beauty in Imperfection Series by Charmaine Pauls
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Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 104532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
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Closing his fingers in my hair, he holds me in place while he slips a hand between our bodies. Another gasp escapes my lips when he touches my clit. He rubs in a circle, bringing me closer to the edge.

“Touch your tits,” he commands.

Letting go of his shoulders creates more distance between us. Eliminating another point of contact leaves me colder still, but I do as he orders and give him the performance he wants by rolling my nipples before pushing my curves together.

“Jesus, Violet.” He slams his hips up hard. “You’re dangerous. Perfect.”

The words don’t fill the hollow in my chest. It caves out, creating a void when he fucks me harder while pressing the pad of his thumb on my clit.

The relentless pressure pushes me to breaking point. My body bows as my orgasm rips like a furious tide through me. He pumps faster, making me ride out the aftermath in an intense but quick battle. My muscles go slack even before he finds his own release. He keeps me up by my hair, watching the portrait of my naked body and the feelings I can’t keep from showing on my face as he punches his hips one last time before stilling.

Unlike me, he holds tightly to his pleasure. The only sound he makes is a grunt. His body pulls taut as he empties himself inside me, every hard muscle locked in place. His eyes give away nothing except for the victory of knowing he effectively triggered my climax.

I only register the bite of pain on my scalp when he lets go of my hair. The tears that gather in my eyes aren’t from the physical discomfort. They come from somewhere deeper, from a place inside me where Leon will never reach, not because I won’t let him but because he made sure to lock me out. What did I expect? That he’d trust me and shower me with affection? No. What he just gave is the most I’ll ever get.

Cupping my cheek, he wipes away a tear that has slipped free. “Did I hurt you?”

I shake my head.

He sits up, pushing our chests together. The heat from his skin is like a magnet. I lean toward it, lapping it up like a frozen person would search the sun. He wraps his arms around me and drags his nose over my neck, but the hug only lasts for a second before he stands with me in his arms.

Not saying a word, he walks us to the bathroom. When he lets me down in the shower and finally pulls out, the evidence of what we’ve done runs down my inner thighs. He turns on the water, lets it run warm, and washes my body with meticulous but clinical attention, paying special care to cleaning between my legs.

After rinsing the soap from our bodies, he hands me a towel and grabs one for himself.

Wrapping the towel around his waist, he says, “I got you an appointment at Inked on Saturday.”

“Oh.” I secure the ends of the towel between my breasts. “Wow. Thank you.”

He stares down at me. “You don’t sound pleased.”

“I am,” I say quickly, but my tone lacks enthusiasm. “I’m just surprised.” It’s not that I’m not grateful. I’m overwhelmed with gratitude. I just need a little space to gather myself. “I thought it was impossible to get an interview there without being invited.”

“I told you I had contacts.”

“Lucky for me.” I smile. “I appreciate it.” When he doesn’t budge, I say, “Really.”

Narrowing his eyes, he scrutinizes me. “Good.”

To change the subject, I ask, “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.” He combs his fingers through his wet hair. “But I have to get to work.”

“Of course.”

Oh. I’m blocking the door. Sheepishly, I step aside.

He walks around me and goes to the dressing room, not sparing me another glance.

Feeling like an intruder, I keep busy in the bathroom by brushing my teeth and moisturizing my body. When he reenters wearing a pair of faded jeans and a dark T-shirt, heading straight for his toothbrush, I slip out and hurriedly dress on my side of the dressing room. I choose a comfortable T-shirt and yoga pants, my go-to outfit for when I’m at home, and exit just as he pulls on his leather jacket.

“I’m running late,” he says, taking his phone from the nightstand and waking up the screen. “I’ll grab breakfast on my way to the office. Eat something healthy.”

Already engrossed in his phone, my nod is lost on him.

“Later,” he says, not looking up from his phone as he walks from the room.

The spicy fragrance of his cologne lingers in the space with the condensation from the bathroom and the smell of sex on the sheets. I’m trapped inside with the memories while he’s long since forgotten about me. It’s a classic case of slam, bam, and not even a thank you, ma’am.


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