Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
His shirt … off.
My shirt … off.
I’m not thirty-five. I’m not a doctor. Or a well-respected professional.
I’m a teenager driven out of control by hormones and all the impulsive emotions that go with them.
Our legs tangle, and his hand shoots out to grip the wall, holding me to him with his other hand while keeping us from falling to the floor.
Doesn’t matter. We hit the wall and melt to the floor anyway.
Colten hovers over me, hitting the pause button for a few labored breaths. He’s not a homicide detective. He’s not the young man who left me. He’s not a father. He’s … the teenaged boy who I chased, pushed away, hated, loved.
Dipping his head, he kisses my neck while cupping my breast over my bra. My hips lift off the floor as if my body’s entire purpose in life has been to feel Colten Mosley between my legs.
While his lips brush the swell of my breast, he releases a soft chuckle.
“Shut up, Mosley,” I murmur as heat fills my cheeks. I’m a lot of things, but immune to his physical touch is not one of them. “Just shut …” I lose my words and my breath when he yanks my bra cup to the side, and his hot mouth devours my flesh.
My other breast.
My abdomen.
He unbuttons my pants and removes them along with my panties.
If his mom magically appears, I might take her life.
His right hand slides up my stomach, squeezing my breast again while his left hand grips my leg, guiding it to the side while his mouth plants between my legs.
“Dear godddd …” I arch my back, and he pinches my nipple.
Lick. Suck.
One finger. Two fingers.
I’m dizzy. So … damn … dizzy.
Colten’s not the hesitant sixteen-year-old who played Beethoven like a boss only to nervously inch his fingers up my inner thighs as I sat on his piano bench with shaky legs and racing breaths.
I close my eyes, and I swear I can still hear Moonlight Sonata.
I gasp … then I moan, lips parted, hips rocking into his touch. One hand grabs his hair while my other hand covers his hand on my breast, squeezing it.
He pinches my nipple until my body jerks from the pain.
A good pain.
That pain crashes into an explosion of pleasure when his tongue and his fingers move faster, harder … and just … so … perfectly …
“Col-Colten … Colten …” I chant with the arrival of my orgasm.
He slows his tongue while lifting his hips and working the button and zipper to his jeans.
I chided him for hesitating with Katy when she asked him if he loved her. I said women like confident men.
With all the confidence in this world, and maybe a few other worlds too, Colten fits between my legs. Kisses me with breathtaking vigor. And drives his cock into me with a hard thrust.
“Fuckkk …” I cry.
He groans into my mouth, but he doesn’t slow down. Not one. Single. Bit.
Has he thought about this for seventeen years like I’ve thought about it? Has my name and image popped into his mind with every other woman he’s been with? Did he think of me the night he conceived his daughter? And if so, how would I feel about that?
I’m going to have bruises on my back consistent with fucking on a hardwood floor. If I die in the next twenty-four hours, that’s not what the medical examiner will write in his notes, but that’s what he’ll think.
“Jesus … Josie …” He breathes in my ear before biting my earlobe. “This can’t end … I want to fuck you all night …” His teeth dig into my shoulder next.
He angles his hips lower … even lower until his pelvis strokes my clit with each thrust.
My fingertips curl into his back, my teeth into his shoulder …
Seventeen years of fantasizing about this moment that I thought would never happen.
Again, I orgasm a few seconds before a moan escapes him. He pumps into me harder than any man has done before him. Then he stills. A mass of rigid muscles and bones going limp over my body. The world’s heaviest weighted blanket.
“Josephine,” he whispers against my ear. It’s a sigh. Or maybe something more reverent, more desperate.
Whatever the meaning, it gives me goose bumps.
It fills my eyes with tears.
There’s no way I’m crying after sex.
Still, this doesn’t feel real.
I’d sit up. Grab my clothes. And run to my bathroom to shore up the wall around my heart. But Colten’s large frame has my body pinned to the floor. With his chest pressed to mine, I feel his heart beating, compromising the strength of mine.
“I need you to go,” I whisper past the lump in my throat. I suppose it’s bad form to ask a guy to leave after sex while he’s physically still inside you. It’s all about survival, and sometimes survival mode isn’t flattering.