Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
And to pounce, his arms snapping around me in a death grip.
We’re kissing each other then.
Which is how all things start with us, with a kiss. With our mouths devouring each other, our tongues licking and lapping, our teeth smacking, our fingers pulling at each other’s bodies.
Soon, he’s picking me up off the floor and throwing me on my bed.
Next he’s kneeling on the mattress, a very masculine and dominating creature on my very feminine and submissive bed. Propped up on my elbows, my thighs limp and open, I watch him snag the back of his dark t-shirt and take it off, revealing his muscled torso.
That mysterious tattoo.
1510.234 3023.456
With a pang, I realize that I may never know what it means now. If he gets his way, if he wins today, I may never know what these numbers mean. But more than that I may never know the heat of his skin again, the feel of it. The texture, the smoothness, the solidity of his summer-like body.
So I break into action then.
I scramble up to my knees and press my mouth on his clavicles.
I run my fingers through his six pack, through that V, through his sleek obliques.
I kiss and lick him all over. I flick my tongue over his tight dark nipples, each and every number of his tattoo, trying to decipher it through its taste.
I kiss his abs next, his belly button, kissing and licking each rung of the tight ladder of his abs.
And I would’ve done more, so much more, but he grabs my untidy braid and pulls my mouth away from his body.
I look into his blazing eyes and whisper, “Tell me what your tattoo means.”
“No.”
I dig my nails on his chest. “Tell me you love me.”
He tightens his grip on my hair to the point of pain. “No.”
“I love you,” I whisper.
He clenches his jaw. “Shut the fuck up.”
“I love you,” I say again because I won’t.
And so he shuts me up with his mouth.
Punishing me with little bites and deep sucks, trying to prove to me that he doesn’t love me.
And I kiss him back with all my soft tongue and plush mouth, trying to prove that I do.
But then I have to break away from him on a gasp.
Because he just did something crazy.
He just tore my nightie off.
He twisted the spaghetti straps of it so hard that the stitches ripped. And while I’m reeling with that, he pulls on the fragile neck and tears that too.
Ripping my nightie right down the middle.
Growling and straining.
“This was my…” I scratch his shoulders. “Favorite.
His response is to grab my tit and squeeze it all possessively. “I know.”
I scratch him harder. “This was your favorite too.”
It was.
Light pink with white daisies. That’s why I wore it today.
To feel closer to him.
“Don’t give a fuck,” he rasps, tugging my nipple harder.
“I —”
He comes closer then. “I brought my belt.”
My eyes go wide at that. My breaths falter.
“Your b-black leather belt?”
“Yeah.”
“To tie me up?”
His response is a clench of his jaw and I know.
That yes, that’s why he’s brought it.
I swallow.
He’s talked about it before, of course. Multiple times. Mostly playfully, sometimes with serious intent. But he never did. Because I guess he knew how much I liked touching him.
Scratching him.
Not to mention, how much he liked that as well.
He still knows that. He still loves that.
Just because we fought yesterday and ended things doesn’t mean he forgot.
But does he really think that this would change my mind?
That this would defeat me.
Disappoint me?
“Okay,” I whisper. “I trust you.”
He hates that.
My easy acquiescence.
But tough luck. I don’t care. I do trust him. I do believe in him and if he doesn’t like that, he can suck it. So before he can say anything else, I go in for a kiss.
And then we start it all over again.
Kissing, biting, devouring, going crazy over each other.
Going sick and obsessed.
Like we’ve been for the past six years.
At last, he lays me down on the bed and goes up on his knees between my open thighs. He takes his belt off with slow, deliberate movements as if giving me time to back out. Giving me time to say no.
But all I do is watch him.
With bated breath.
With anticipatory breaths.
As much as I know I’m going to hate not being able to touch him, I also like the thrill of it.
He’s always protecting me, isn’t he?
He’s always trying to keep me from harm even though he knows very well that I can take care of myself. Well, now I’m going to be really helpless.
I’m going to be really trapped, with my hands tied up and caged under his big muscular body.
I can’t wait for him to take care of me then.
I can’t wait to see how he protects me then. How he grows frantic with his need to keep me safe.