Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
EPILOGUE
SOLEDAD
About a Year Later
“I fall in love with myself and I want someone to share it with me.”
—Eartha Kitt, iconic actress
It’s not every day you wake up in Morocco with the man you love eating breakfast between your legs.
“Judah, Jesus.” I blink dazedly up at the ceiling fan leisurely rotating overhead, my yawn swallowed by a moan as I push through layers of sleep. “Again? I can barely move after last night.”
“Shhh.” He doesn’t bother lifting his head but slides his hands under my thighs and spreads them wider. “I’m trying to eat.”
With deft fingers he peels me back, opening his mouth wide over me and sucking, licking, worshipping. My toes curl and pleasure crawls up my calves, kisses behind my knees, tightening my muscles like a tender vise. I dig my heels into the luxurious sheets, jerking, my back arching, one hand rifling through the short curls around my ears, the other cupping his head, pushing him deeper into me. He sends his fingers to skim up my torso, squeezing my breast, plucking my nipple.
“Not fair,” I gasp. “You know what that does to me.”
He chuckles, cool air misting the hot, wet place he’s still giving his full attention. And then he shifts, flipping us with easy strength so that he’s changed positions, him on his back and me on top. Grabbing my butt, he coaxes me up and up and up until my knees splay the width of his shoulders, and he urges me down onto his face.
This is my fantasy come to life. I glance over at the bedside table where his black-rimmed glasses rest, and it makes me even wetter, wilder. A whimper floats up from my throat, spilling into the room, which is quiet save for the sounds of my tortured pleasure and his greedy mouth feasting. I roll my hips over his face, all inhibitions gone, wafting on the Mediterranean breeze. Gripping the headboard with one hand, I squeeze my breast with the other, losing myself in leagues of rapture so deep, I gasp for breath. Judah’s big hands tighten on my thighs, stretching me to my limit, his hunger voracious and consuming.
When I come, the orgasm wrests a strangled cry from me, and I sob, pressing my temple to the headboard, tears slicking my face, desire slicking my thighs. I’m a mess, disoriented even as he lifts me and flips me onto my back. Unhesitatingly, he hooks an elbow under my knee and plunges in raw, nothing between us. It’s all the more intimate because of the trust that bare act requires, the trust that another broke before, fully restored with this man.
“Shit,” he grunts, squeezing his eyes closed as, still orgasming, I clench around him. “So fucking tight, Sol. I love you.”
“So much.” I hook my ankles at the base of his spine, lifting to greet him, to meet him. I grip his neck and bring him down for a sloppy kiss that tastes like me and like him and like abandonment. It tastes like our devotion, and I lick the corners of it. I swipe my tongue into his mouth and leave nothing unloved. He braces one muscled arm over us, his palm flat to the wall as he pistons into me, shaking the bed, shaking my foundations until I crumble for him again, and he, with a hoarse cry, crumbles for me.
In the aftermath, we lie quiet, unmoving, like we’re afraid to disrupt a sacred ritual. We stay joined, even as he lifts his head to find my gaze with his, love blazing there. Not looking away, he kisses me, trailing his lips down my jaw, over the curve of my shoulder, down to suck my breasts. He hardens inside me.
“Don’t you dare,” I croak, my voice shredded from last night’s screams and this morning’s shrieks. “You have to give me a minute, an hour. You’re insatiable.”
“For you,” he whispers at my collarbone. “Okay. You’ve earned a break, but I’ll be back.”
He pulls out, stands, and rips the sheets away, exposing my body, naked and spent, to the cooler morning air.
“Shower,” he declares, scooping me up in his arms and walking through the bathroom.
“I can walk,” I tell him, my head lolling against his shoulder, but I’m not sure. My legs feel rubbery and my knees are Jell-O.
“I can carry.” He drops a kiss in my hair, walking us past the sunken tub and massive shower out through the open door to the shower outside. He eases me down, my damp skin dragging over his, imprinting the love and passion of moments ago. My feet touch down and I lift my face to the Moroccan sun, smiling at the warm rays and the cool breeze. Our hotel villa is so secluded, privacy isn’t a worry, and we’ve taken full advantage, open-air lovemaking every chance we get.