Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 72765 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72765 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
The magnetism between us is potent, dangerous.
A strange, inner excitement floods my veins before charging into explosive currents.
She grinds against me, and I slip my fingers beneath the waistband of her jeans before flicking the button and tugging the zipper.
Her mouth collides with mine again, this time more tongue than teeth, but when she reaches for my shirt, I capture her hands.
“Shirt stays on.” I move for her bra, unclasping the hook and tugging it down her goose-flesh-covered arms.
I’m not ashamed of my scar, but it tends to detract from the heat of the moment—especially with the sympathetic, heart-of-gold types. I don’t want Astaire to ask questions, to pity me—I want her to ride my cock and not worry if I’m going to have a massive coronary at thirty years old.
Her fiery lips skim mine and she makes a subtle move for my shirt again, and again, I redirect her attentions … elsewhere … in the form of my fingers slipping beneath the soaked gusset of her lace panties. I slide them between her warm, wet pussy lips before plunging two of them inside her.
Tossing her head back, she exhales, body quivering and mouth curling up at the sides—pure bliss with a hint of throttled madness.
Sliding my fingers from her, I bring them to her mouth, inviting her to taste what I’m doing to her … the sweet torture, the conflicted arousal of wanting the very person who makes your blood boil.
“I want you there,” I point to the end of the sofa. “Bent over.”
Her eyes soften, confusion perhaps.
My body aches for her.
Overthinking and second-guessing have no part in this.
“I’m going to fuck you from behind, Astaire,” I spell it out for her. “I want you to feel all of me. Every last fucking inch, all the way to the deepest parts of you.”
She hesitates.
“What? You thought I was going to fuck you missionary-style? Look into your eyes and tell you how beautiful you are while we both pretend this isn’t just sex?” I exhale.
She says nothing.
“You know that’s not what this is about.” I turn her in my lap so she’s facing away, my hand soft around her neck as I lean close and breathe against her ear before taking a nibble. “You and I both know why I invited you here tonight. And we both know why you came. I want you, Astaire. And you want me. We both have our reasons, and there’s nothing wrong with any of them.”
Silence settles between us, nothing but shallow breaths and the gentle glow of the fireplace. Just when I’m positive she’s about to melt against me, cave in to her inmost desires, she climbs off me and begins to gather her clothes off the floor like she’s got a plane to catch—or someplace better to be.
“I’m sorry.” She brushes a strand of hair from her face, swooping, grabbing her panties and bra and collecting everything in her arm. “I can’t do this. I don’t do casual hook ups. And even if I did … I couldn’t do them with you.”
Breathless, she shimmies into her panties and tight jeans and doesn’t bother with her bra, shoving it into her purse before tugging her sweater over her head. The soft fabric hugs her swollen tits and tents around her nipples. She scans the room, gaze settling toward the foyer—her escape.
Jesus Christ, the woman can’t get out of here fast enough.
She won’t look at me, but she isn’t crying. In fact, she isn’t showing a shred of emotion. If I had to guess, she wants to get the hell out of here and pretend like none of this happened.
Good luck with that, sweetheart …
She’s going to be thinking about this night, about me, about how hot the sex could’ve been, about all the strange yet exhilarating ways I could’ve made her feel … for the rest of her life.
Rising, I slip into my boxer briefs and escort her to the door, fetching her coat from the closet. It’s best that I don’t speak. It’s best that I let her have her moment. I’m not going to talk her into sleeping with me, and I’m sure as hell not going to beg her to stay.
“I’m so sorry.” Her hand rests on the knob, her gaze trained on the door. Still, the woman won’t meet my gaze.
“Stop apologizing, Astaire.”
And with that, I let her go.
19
Astaire
If it weren’t for the fact that I can still feel the heat of his mouth on mine, still feel the aching tension between my thighs when I close my eyes, I’d be certain the events of last night were a dream.
I jam my key into the back entrance lock at the Elmhurst Theatre Saturday morning, dressed to clean. The owners hosted a Great Gatsby-themed gala last night, complete with live music and catering, and since I’m on the volunteer committee, I offered to show up first thing to help with clean-up.