Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
“Harder,” I rasp, trying to pull him closer.
“What makes you think I take orders?” The dark note in his reply feels like another wave of pleasure. Another of my body’s demands.
“I can’t tell you what I like?” I goad as I undulate softly against him.
His gaze narrows before his hand drifts to my breast, cupping the weight. His thumb circles my nipple once, twice. It stiffens under the lace, though I refuse to make any sound. Until his fingers firm and he tugs. I gasp. The reveal of my enjoyment.
“You were saying?” The look in his eyes could burn down whole buildings.
“Beginner’s luck.”
“That must be why I can feel you pulsing for me.”
My denials are short lived as his hand slips between my legs. My body jolts, and I moan as his thumb massages me over the silk of my panties. “No one likes a show-off.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” There’s a concentration to his gaze, a dark intent as he toys with me. As his thumbnail scrapes against the fabric and he swallows my next sound. Feasts on it. “I’d say you like me well enough.” His hot words travel up my jaw, and I suck in a sharp breath as his teeth find my earlobe. The rest is lost as his hand slips into my panties. I arch with a cry, my flesh giving so easily to the press of his fingers.
“Seems we’re both a little perverse.” His tone is all praise as his fingers glide through my arousal. “I’ve barely touched you, yet you’re so wet.”
My response is a soft whimper as he paints my pleasure to the rise of my clit.
“What was that?” he purrs, circling a light touch. “I didn’t quite hear you.”
“Don’t tease.” I fall back on my palms as he fills me with his fingers, the violence of the motion bringing with it such relief that I cry out.
“You’re such a good girl for me,” he purrs, ignoring me as my body contradicts my complaint. I arch against him, desperate to satisfy the need that wants to twist me inside out. “Look at you, taking my fingers.”
Holy Lord. His praise hits some secret pleasure button I didn’t know I possessed.
“Sweet, sweet Eve.” Slow and rhythmic, his fingers coax and dance. But his gaze is nothing short of predatory. “You make such pretty noises for me.”
“I’d be . . . be more into this if you stopped talking.” The words rush from me in a broken breath.
His laughter feels like a brush of velvet against my skin, my lie called out by the way I arch against him. “You think I should use my mouth for something else?”
My body reacts to his words before my mind can process them, my thighs beginning to twitch like they don’t belong to me.
“Yes.” He spears me deeply, and my fingers curl around the edge of the table as though to hang on. To the sensation, the moment, or my wits, I can’t be sure, as he swallows the sounds of my relief. In my line of vision, his bicep contracts, and my breath leaves my mouth in three powerfully connected bursts.
“So slick.”
I mewl, distressed as I find myself empty and pulsing, with his glistening fingers in the air between us.
“I suppose you’re going to say this isn’t for me either.” He rubs the evidence of my pleasure between them.
I have no answer, everything south of my navel contracting as he presses his fingers to his lips. He sucks them deep.
“Certainly tastes like mine.” Pleasure spirals through me as he gives his thumb one final catlike lick. “In fact, you taste like I might lose my mind.”
“You’re still talking.”
“Oh, that mouth.” He gives a disparaging shake of his head. “It needs occupying. The question is, should I kiss it or fuck it?”
There’s something about those coarse words in that accent. His diction so sharp, it seems to slice to my core. Layers, my God, the layers.
He dips, and I suddenly find myself over his shoulder. Instead of protesting, I give in to a delighted giggle because no one in the history of me has ever gone caveman on me. Are there really men like this outside of movies, or is it just him? But then my heart jumps as I notice him swipe up his necktie.
“What’s that for?” Did that sound like panic or excitement?
“Can’t have you running away.”
Not twice in one day. The thought is an unwelcome reminder, the malicious sprite on my shoulder sounding suspiciously like my mother. I guess Oliver must sense some change in me because, in the bedroom, he sets me gently to my feet.
“What is it?” His tone is gentle, the setting sun rendering him a mixture of shadows and deep bronze.
Not trusting myself to speak, I give a small shake of my head.