Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Her nails dig into my back, scratching upward, and it’s fucking fantastic.
“So good,” I growl. “Leave marks on me. Everywhere.”
“You sure?” she murmurs.
“Do it,” I urge, my voice thick with want.
Her nails rake down my back as I fuck her, and all I can think is how much I want to feel those marks tomorrow. But I also want her to feel everything tonight.
I rise to my knees, looking down at her, then assessing the situation. The position. My goals. “Sit on my lap. Ride me. I’ll make you come so hard that way.”
“So cocky,” she says, but she’s scrambling.
I shift to the edge of the bed, sit there and tug her toward me. I pull her into position, then guide her down onto my dick again, thrusting up into her with a sharp, desperate rhythm.
“I need to see your face when I fuck you. And when I do this.” I lift a hand and smack her ass.
She gasps, then moans. “Miles.”
My name has never sounded better.
“You want more?” I ask, holding nothing back.
“I want marks.”
It’s official. I’m a furnace. “You’ll get them, sweetheart.” As I drive into her, I lift my other hand, pausing, pausing, then coming down hard on the soft flesh of her ass.
She yelps, then whimpers. And that’s all I want. I fuck, I smack, and then I kiss. Hard, ruthless, using teeth and tongue. I’m sweating, she’s moaning, and we’re coming together. Everything—every single thing about this moment—is filthy perfection.
Then, somehow, it gets impossibly better when she grabs my hands from her ass and says urgently, “My hair. Pull it. Touch it. Play with it.”
The invitation. The meaning behind it. The desire.
I rope my fingers through her hair, tugging as she rises and falls on my cock.
She tenses, then keens.
My hands curl through those locks, messing them up, touching her everywhere—it’s a freedom she clearly craves, and one I need too. The more I touch her, the faster her moans come, the quicker she moves, and the hotter we both become.
Until one more jerk, one more thrust, and she’s tipping over, crying out. And that’s all it takes. The switch flips in me, and I come so hard as she falls apart on me.
As she murmurs softly, something soft moves against my ass. Something…odd.
When I focus again, I look down. It’s Boo. He’s squirmed past me, licking Leighton’s leg. Nope. He’s no longer licking—he’s gearing up to mount Leighton’s leg.
“Down, boy,” I say firmly, scooping him off her. “She’s mine.”
Leighton meets my gaze, one brow arching.
“Well, you are,” I say, owning it.
She smiles, then says, “Then you should ask me to stay the night.”
I haul her close, my voice firm. “As if you’d stay anyplace else.”
36
A HARD BARGAIN
Leighton
I have questions. Starting with: “Where did you learn to cook? Did you go to culinary school while getting your philosophy and psychology degrees?”
Miles smirks, his lips curving upward as he flips the omelet in the pan. “Not at the culinary school level,” he replies, his tone teasing, but it’s clear he enjoys the compliment.
It’s the best morning ever. Miles wears glasses, low-slung black lounge pants, and a snug gray T-shirt that clings to his broad shoulders. His ink peeks out from beneath the short sleeves as he flips mushroom omelets at the stovetop. Cindy’s curled into a dog ball on my lap, snoozing as I sip my green tea at the counter.
It’s the kind of domestic moment I never knew I craved until now—comfortably sitting across from someone, a man who makes me feel like I belong, the smell of breakfast in the air.
“I am, however, a tea sommelier,” I quip, taking another sip.
Miles glances over his shoulder as he slides an omelet onto a plate. “Good,” he says, holding my gaze a beat too long. “You should enjoy everything here.”
There it is again. Here. The word lands, weighted with something unspoken. I spent the night—of course I did. He asked me to, and honestly, I was planning on it anyway. But the question of what comes next looms.
Like, tonight.
I should ask him, but my stomach growls as he sets the plate in front of me, the aroma distracting me, and likely enticing Cindy too much. I scoop her up and set her down in her hot tub, next to her fur siblings.
“So, how did you learn to cook?” I ask again once I return and dig in. The omelet is perfect—savory, fluffy, and impossibly good.
“I taught myself,” he says, coming around the counter with a plate of his own, along with a cup of coffee, and sitting next to me.
It’s nice eating breakfast together. It feels…easy. Like this is something we’ve done a hundred times before instead of something that might not happen again.
“Like, with YouTube and everything?” I tease.
He laughs, shaking his head. “Sweetheart, I started cooking more than twenty years ago. YouTube wasn’t a thing. I learned from the Food Network and books.”