Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 68048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
“I’m going to come,” he groaned. His hands gripped and then let go of my hair, like he was torn between pushing me away and pulling me closer. But I wouldn’t be pushed away. This was my favorite part, when he was so vulnerable and I was so strong. It took a lot of trust for him to give me this power over him and I loved it.
“Fuck, Ronnie,” he breathed. “I’m—” And then his hands clenched hard in my hair. Hard enough to hurt, but I barely felt it, and he flooded my mouth with come. He twitched and gasped, holding me still one second, pushing me away the next, until finally he was still.
His skin was sweaty and damp. His breathing ragged.
“Ronnie,” he whispered and he leaned over my body. Kissed my shoulders. My neck. He pulled me up off his body. My mouth was sore. My body on fire. He rolled me onto my back and kissed his way across my chest. My belly.
“What are you doing?” I breathed.
“I need to taste you again,” he said. “It’s been so long.” He shifted me and moved me. Put me where he wanted me. “Yes,” he breathed, when he was down between my legs. “Yes, baby, God. You taste—” And then his mouth was too busy to talk and I had to put my fist in my own mouth to keep myself from screaming.
It was wet and hungry and electric, and it felt like the top of my head was going to explode. He held me tight to his lips and all I could do was tilt my head back and try to keep breathing.
“Clayton,” I cried. “Oh, my God. Oh—”
The clichés are true. Those ones I loved so much in romance novels. It was like an explosion. It was like being flung up and out of my body, and I was crying and grinding myself into his face, trying to make the best orgasm of my life last.
When it was over and there was no more pleasure to pull out of me, he toppled over to the side, one of my legs across his chest.
His fingertips stroked up from my knee to my thigh and then his palm stroked back down, like he was ruffling my feathers and then smoothing them out.
It was deeply relaxing.
“I like strip conversation,” I said. The first rather inane words that popped into my head fell out of my mouth.
He was so relaxed he was like a different person. A stranger. And my breath caught in my throat.
“I like the way you come,” he said and crawled over me to kiss me. Then he shifted to move away, but I put my arms around him and held him still so I could kiss him.
“How about the way I take care of you?” I asked and he stroked the hair off my face.
I knew it was just a sexy joke, but it occurred to me that I didn’t take care of him at all. And I never had. Clayton Rorick always kept me at arm’s length, even while he knocked down all my defenses.
Tonight—not the blowjob, but earlier, when he’d come in rain wet and sad—that was the most vulnerable I’d ever seen him. Hugging him in that moment was the most he’d ever let me take care of him.
“Thank you,” he said and kissed me. Once. Twice. “For taking care of me.”
He stiffened, as if he was about to push his body away from mine and start the process of getting dressed and walking out the door.
“Stay,” I said. I shut my mouth fast but the words were out.
He smiled at me like he knew I would take it back if I could.
“It’s all right. I’m sure you have lots you need to do.”
“No,” I said, finding some weird place of courage. Or foolishness? Whatever, I was going with it. “Stay. It’s late and—” Thunder broke over the house. “It’s really raining.”
He shifted me and rolled me until we were lying face-to-face.
“You don’t have to ask me to stay,” he said.
“But I want to.”
“No lie?”
I shook my head, found myself smiling. “No lie.”
16
CLAYTON
I watched her sleeping and knew I was winning. She was melting, bit by bit, back into me. Comforted by this no-lying rule she’d made. And orgasms. For a woman who always claimed that she was over the shit lessons her own father had taught her with his neglect, she could be prickly. And defensive. Quick to assume she’d done something wrong and slow to believe she hadn’t.
But after sex she was the most comfortable version of herself. Relaxed in her skin. Happy in her body. Ready to laugh and joke. If I could, I would keep her in this state all the time. And when it started to fade, when she thought about the things she needed to do or all the reasons we shouldn’t be together, I would simply make her come again.