Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 151845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
He wants me from behind? Again? Always from behind. It’s never occurred to me before now to wonder why.
Everything inside of me is screaming for me to stop him – to make this time different. Why? Why does he always want me like this? My hands push into the mattress, holding me up, my knees trembling as he tickles a perfectly straight line with his fingertip down my spine. Cognitive thought is near impossible, the sensations and anticipation building under his touch. ‘Becker,’ I croak, dropping my head, clenching my eyes shut.
‘Shhhh,’ he hushes me, then knocks all protest out of me when he replaces his finger with his lips, kissing a path down my back, his hand cupping my boob, moulding it meticulously. He’s bent over me, devoting his attention to any part of me that he can lay his hands or lips on, driving me insane with need. Then he’s gone for a moment. The tear of something tells me why, followed by a sharp inhale of air. ‘Ready for a good-fucking-morning?’ he asks gently, stroking my bottom.
‘Becker.’ I’m not sure what I’m begging for. Penetration or an explanation as to why it always needs to be like this. ‘Becker, please.’ I feel the hot head of his erection meet my sodden flesh, rolling around. I smash my fist into the mattress on a broken scream.
And then he pounds forward on a guttural yell and digs his fingers into my hips. His force nearly has me collapsing to my tummy. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel weak and unsure whether I can sustain his brutal fucking right now. ‘Becker!’
He crashes into me once more, working his way up to a steady rhythm. ‘Shit, Eleanor, you feel fucking good.’
Bang!
‘No!’ I scream, scrambling to escape his power. I free myself from his brutal clutches and swing around, gasping for air as I find my balance and kneel by the pillows.
Becker’s arse drops to his heels, panic flooding his features. ‘Shit, Eleanor, did I hurt you?’ He goes to move forward, to comfort me, but I hold up my hand, forbidding him to come close.
‘I want to see you,’ I tell him, my voice even and determined.
His brow wrinkles in confusion. ‘I don’t understand.’ He looks away.
Makes two of us, I think, my body going slack. ‘I want to see you when we’re making love. I want to kiss you.’
His eyes snap to mine, and I can literally see him trying to wrap his head around my declaration. It’s not hard. Becker above me. Or even me above Becker. I don’t care which. ‘Right.’ He seems to shake some life back into himself, and slowly, tentatively, like he’s scared, he begins to move forward, wrapping a forearm around my waist and pulling my front to his. ‘I can do that,’ he says quietly. I feel a small, amused smile tug at the corner of my mouth, because that statement was telling himself. Not me.
He slowly lays me down, so gently you’d think I was glass, and I bring my palms up to cup his cheeks. Thoughts run rampant in my mind. Has he never taken a woman like this? Let her see him when he’s making love to her? And it’s in this moment I consider the possibility that he’s never actually made love to a woman at all. He’s fucked. There was no sentiment or feelings for him, just raw hard screwing. It’s all he knows how to do.
My hands slip from his face when he pulls back. He pushes my legs apart, spreading me wide, then spends a few riveted moments staring down between my thighs. I keep quiet, quite riveted myself by his approach. It’s not like he doesn’t know what he’s doing, more like he’s unsure about doing it.
Taking deep drags of air, he reaches down and takes hold of his cock, stroking down the shaft with his fist slowly as he kneels between my thighs. Then he’s lowering to me, guiding himself to my entrance, the whole time watching his own actions instead of me. The dash of contact when the tip of his arousal meets my flesh has my hands flying to his shoulders. Becker begins to physically shake. He’s beginning to sweat. His face is cut with concentration, his Adam’s apple pulsing from his constant swallows. He pushes in a little and closes his eyes, letting his head hang limply. I send my hands on a feeling mission, keen to touch every place I can now that I have the opportunity. My palms slip up each side of his neck, onto his jaw and come to rest on his stubbled cheeks. But his eyes remain closed.
He’s half-submerged, tinkering on the edge of full penetration. He’s steeling himself, working up to that final push. And then it happens, and my back bows violently, my cry welcoming him into me.