Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 276(@200wpm)___ 221(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 276(@200wpm)___ 221(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
A second later, he folds me close again and stands, lifting me and taking me with him, walking toward the oversized chair in the corner, next to the gas fireplace he turned on earlier. He sets me on the ottoman and claims the chair in front of me, lifting my legs to either side of his hips and then pulling me and the ottoman up to his knees. “Lean back,” he orders, but he doesn’t wait for my compliance, capturing my hands and pressing them to the cushion behind me, the delicious partial weight of him leaning over me.
He pulls my hips forward slightly, ensuring that I can’t move unless he allows me to move, not without falling. We’re back to control—his, not mine. But after two long years of desperately seeking control and never finding anything remotely familiar, I don’t want it. Not now. Not tonight.
He’s still holding my hands down, his mouth hovering over my mouth, lingering a moment before he presses it to mine, a long slide of his tongue seducing me, arousal vibrating through my body. “Ana,” he murmurs, as if he just needs to say my name and know I’m really here.
“Luke,” I whisper. “Though right now, Lucifer might be more appropriate. You love to torment me.”
His lips curve slightly and he nuzzles my neck and whispers, “I do love to torment you.” As if proving that to be true, his hands caress a path up my arms and back down until he cups my breasts. He leans in and nips my lips, a pinch that he soothes with his tongue while his fingers tease my nipples.
“Luke,” I whisper, my sex clenching, my hips arching toward him.
He answers by lavishing my nipple with delicate kisses, before his teeth tease it, his mouth suckling. He teases me mercilessly, knowing what I really want, knowing where I really need him, until I give him what we both know he wants.
“Please, Luke,” I pant out. “Please.”
His lips curve again, satisfaction in his deep blue eyes as he presses his lips between my breasts and begins kissing a path downward to the lower expanse of my belly. His mouth remains there, but his fingers find the slick wet heat of my sex, exploring, teasing. When I’m about to plead for sanity, he drags his mouth lower, kissing my clit.
That’s when I become aware of the music, and I don’t know why. Why now? Why? It’s Fletcher’s “Undrunk,” which is a break-up song. I do not need a break-up song right now.
I drop my arms and fall on my back, and he captures one of my legs, dragging it to his shoulder. The minute he suckles me, his fingers stroking me inside as he does, I moan softly, while the song pushes its way into my mind.
Wish I could get a little undrunk so I could uncall you
At five in the morning, I would unfuck you
I must stiffen or react in some way, because Luke slides his hands under me and lifts me off the cushion, cradling me. “That’s not us. That’s not what this is. I will not regret this and hope like fuck you won’t either.”
“No regrets,” I promise but in the back of my mind I know—we both know—that’s easier to say in an intimate, passionate moment.
But there’s no more discussion.
His mouth closes down on mine, and I can taste myself on his lips, the intimacy between us exploding, shifting, taking on its own life. We’re touching each other, hands everywhere, our kisses almost desperate, as if this is it, our one last chance to be together. At some point, he shoves back the ottoman and stands with me, both of us working his pants. The slow burn is now hard and fast, but not fast enough for either of us.
Finally, I think, when he kicks away his pants, his thick erection at my hip, my hand wrapping it. He groans softly, and it’s not a complaint. He catches my waist and sits, taking me with him, pulling me across his lap. I straddle him, his erection between us, his hand on the back of my head, his tongue against my tongue. And he tastes like everything I’ve ever wanted. He always has.
“I need to be inside you,” he murmurs and when he would lift me, I catch his legs with my legs.
“Aren’t you even going to ask about birth control?”
His eyes meet mine and he says, “I couldn’t give two fucks about birth control.” His voice is a low, almost angry rumble, history in its depths, our history.
We wanted a horse ranch, and kids, and two dogs, and two cats, a fantasy land in the world we lived in, but we didn’t care.
It’s another one of those things you can say in the moment, but you might not mean later, but it doesn’t matter. I’m still on the pill. Maybe I always hoped this day would come because it sure wasn’t for anyone else. He drags my mouth to his, and whispers, “Are you going to say anything?”