Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
“I don’t know about posh people…” his words trail away.
“You? Of course you don’t.” My answer is not in the same tone. “Hey!”
He plucks away my knickers next.
“Pretty.” The black gossamer scrap dangle from the tip of his index finger. “I like how you color coordinate,” he says, studying them.
“With my mood, you mean?”
He doesn’t answer as he swings them closer to the chute. They too are sucked away.
“I’ll be impressed when they come back washed and pressed all by themselves,” I mutter, stuffing my jeans and socks in after them. “Rich people are so—”
I begin to turn when I find myself spinning further—faster—than I anticipated. My palms hit the cool stone vanity and I arch my back, my body seeming to understand this opportunity faster than my brain.
As our eyes meet in the mirror, him with his hot gaze and me with the needy pull between my legs. He takes my hips in his hands as he brings those chiseled lips to my ear.
“My lady disdain.” His voice is low, the words a bare breath.
“I’m not—” My lids flutter, my argument instinctual. I’m not what? A smart arse, full of contempt for anything I don’t have, that I don’t understand? A woman who still feels like that little girl uncomfortable in her own skin?
I gasp as his teeth nip my fleshy lobe.
“You’re determined to make every moment hard, aren’t you?”
I forget the rest of my denial—I don’t even make a quip—as he flexes into me, the kind of hard I yearn for a thickness pressed against me. I close my eyes at the sight of his wicked expression and the rush of warmth between my legs.
“Lavender.” My name is an exhalation as his hands slips between my legs. I give in to a quiet groan as he grips my inner thigh. “Why does everything have to be an argument with you?” My T-shirt stretches as he hooks the neck with his finger, bestowing a sucking kiss to the place my shoulder and neck meets.
“I don’t mean for it to be.”
His chuckle is whisper soft as it slides across the back of my neck. “You are such a pretty little liar.”
The noise I make is animal, indelicate, my body bucking against him as he cups me between my legs. His long middle finger curls, stroking over the fabric.
“Tell the truth.”
I give a ragged sounding moan as he rotates his palm, pressuring my clit just right. But I’m telling the truth. There’s just something inside me that chooses mayhem and anarchy over rational expression. I suppose it doesn’t take the brain of Briton to work out my personality is my amour.
“I can’t help it.” A rush of discomfort washes over my skin. “You just bring out the worst in me.”
“Isn’t that the truth.”
It’s not all of it.
“What can I say? Men with fancy laundry systems just do it for me.” His eyes darken as I lick my lips. “Tell me, did you have it installed because suction turns you on?”
“I don’t need to stick my cock into a wall to have it sucked.”
“I expect you could just call Celeste,” I answer, deliberately using the wrong name.
“Or Celine. Or maybe both.”
“I could call Tod, and we could make a party of it.”
“If you want to see a grown man cry, that’s your prerogative.”
“Would you cry watching me kiss him?” I give an exaggerated pout and startle a little as I take in my own reflection. My eyes are dark, my hair is mussed, and my neck marked by patches of pink and red from his attentions.
When he palms my clit, I make that noise again. Reflexive, instant, and lust filled.
“There will be no Tod for you.” He presses my body between his hand and his cock. “Not while we’re—”
“Fake married?” I push my hand between us, wrapping my fingers around his thick girth.
“Greedy.” He grunts, pulling my hand away. He puts his lips to my wrist before lifting it to the back of his neck.
This ache, this need, it’s so bittersweet.
I take my breast in my free hand and we both watch as I scissor my fingers over my hardened nipple.
He almost growls my name. “You’re such a sweet little cock tease.”
He’s right. I am a picture of wantonness as I touch myself. Legs spread wide, Raif’s tan arm snaking around my waist, and his hand cupped firm between my legs.
“Real married,” he growls as his fingers tighten. My body jolts, pleasure pulsing through me.
“Fake relationship.” Upping the ante, I moan as I tug the peaked tip. “Seems one-sided that you can call Celine, but I can’t call Tod for a little… relief.”
“You want him stuffed in that suitcase?”
I almost cry out, but not for Tod. I’ve pushed Raif too far as his hand slips away. But my cries take on another edge as he thrusts it under the waistband of my pajama shorts.