Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 58346 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58346 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
And he allows it. He literally has to be, because if he didn’t want me to move, I would not have the choice. Where Roman already makes me feel tiny, his muscular frame taller and wider and stronger than my own, Bram makes me feel fragile, downright breakable, like he’d be able to hurt me without even exerting a fraction of all that size and strength.
It’s a fact that suddenly makes me so wet I should be mortified. I can feel the wetness seeping from me, trickling between my cheeks there’s so much of it. There has to be, seeing as he still has the gusset of my panties pressed against my slit, which means I’m so aroused I’ve already soaked through the cotton.
I can’t look away as his head lowers, and I feel his hot breath on the tip of one breast. My body, choosing a different instinct to react to this time, flinches away from it, somehow recognizing that breath doesn’t belong to its master, but that doesn’t stop my nipples from tightening to an almost painful degree. Another shiver works its way from my chest to my neck and up through my trapped arms, and I hear him hum, as if in approval.
“So responsive, little one. Your mouth might be begging me to let you go, but the rest of your body? It’s begging for something completely different,” he purrs, and to my utter shame, my vision goes blurry, my eyes unfocusing in order to concentrate more closely on my other senses—the sound of his deep, quiet voice, the scent of his intoxicating, crisp cologne, the feel of his heavy body on top of me, my mind trying to pick out the specific parts of him and where they’ve aligned with the different parts of me.
My senses magnify even more from there. I can smell the lumber stacked not too far away, the grass all around me, but laced through all of it is something spicy… dangerous. I’m at this man’s mercy, and he’s right; my body is turning on me, and if any normal woman experiences that, surely she doesn’t feel what I’m feeling. She absolutely doesn’t use all her mental capacity to take a snapshot of this moment so she can remember it for all time.
The way my skin feels like it has an electric current running over it.
The way my blood feels like it’s boiling, expanding inside my veins, making them vibrate from being overfull and like I’ll soon be proof that spontaneous combustion can really happen.
The way I can hear my heart thumping inside my head, my eardrums being pounded to its beat.
The metallic taste in my mouth from breathing so heavily, panting so uncontrollably my throat has gone dry.
And so many other tiny little details that should not be making me needier and needier. They should not be making my pussy beg to be roughly filled with something long and hard… ravaged… fucked until its raw.
I should be fighting with every ounce of strength in my body, and I want to do that, crave it, but a normal woman wouldn’t still hope to be fucked while she struggles; she’d want to get away.
When my eyes refocus, I look away from his, unable to take all the things reflected in them at once. Maybe if it was only the throat-gripping desire, but not that while it’s combined with the artfully put-on evilness along with the genuine care I’ve always seen there, acting as the base.
I turn my head, my face pressing to the inside of my bicep, and what my eyes land on makes me blink. And my breath catches, stopping dead in my lungs.
I blink again, because the sight is so shocking I think my brain might be playing tricks on me. But then I remember what I’m the middle of. And then I remember the catalyst of it all.
I blink one more time, just because the image is far enough away and in the shadows that I feel the need to make doubly sure.
Yes.
Dark hair that’s fallen forward over his forehead, long enough it nearly gets caught in those eyelashes God had no need to give to a man. They frame eyes that are hidden at this distance and angle, because he’s also not looking directly at me. He’s focused much closer to himself—eyes on his phone that’s raised, blocking the rest of his face. But I don’t have to see it to know he’s staring right at me through the screen.
Making no move to stop what’s happening.
Lounging, knees wide, sitting on the front porch of a vacant house that hasn’t been finished yet.
Suddenly, I’m having an out-of-body experience, floating upward until I have a bird’s eye view of all three of us—my husband’s unwavering hand holding the cell, so steady, so seemingly unfazed, as he watches me, across the yard, being held down on the ground, a huge blonde man on top of me, fondling me however he wants.