Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 72655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Now.
Because if this went any farther than this point we happened to find ourselves at, I might very well do the things I’d wanted to do to her for longer than I was comfortable admitting to.
I shifted my weight, rolling her off of me by rolling my body over as well, and groaned when she went with me easily.
When I went to move my hips off of her, she hastily threw her legs around my waist and said the last thing I ever thought would come out of her mouth.
“I’m not drunk. I’m not tired. I’ve been awake for an hour, and I want you.”
All of my concerns that I’d had as I was rolling her off of me took off like a puff of smoke on a windy day.
“Iz,” I hesitated. “I’m not in the right place…this could turn out really bad.”
I needed her to know that before I did anything.
Though, I shouldn’t have bothered to tell her that.
“And I’m not in the right place, either,” she admitted. “I’m still fucked up over my ex. I have nightmares every night thinking he’s in my room with me, about to strangle me—and that I have no one to blame but myself because I wanted to marry him despite knowing he wasn’t a good man. I walk everywhere because he held buying me a car and teaching me to drive over my head, and let’s not forget the fact that he’d beaten me four times over the course of our relationship, and it was only learning that he’d slept with one of my bridesmaids the night before the wedding that had been the trigger point for me to realize that he wasn’t the man for me. Despite it being years ago now, I still don’t have my shit together. I’m a fucked-up mess, and I have no one to blame but myself.”
I growled in anger.
“Your ex-fiancé used mind games on you, as did your parents,” I said, trying not to pry. I had barely managed to keep the “what’s this man’s name” question off my lips for months now. But last night I’d finally learned it, and it was seared into my brain like a brand. Rodrigo. “And it’s nice that you agree, because we really shouldn’t be doing this.”
I wanted to ask her questions. I wanted to know what made her tick. I wanted to know all the gory details that there were to know, and I wanted to make her feel better.
I wanted to plant my cock inside of her, and I wanted to make sure that she knew that not every man was an asshole like her father and ex-fiancé.
Most importantly, I wanted her to know that I wanted her. Fucked-up mess and all.
I wanted to mess her up, and I wanted her to mess me up.
I wanted us to be fucked-up messes together.
But…I had a conscience, and that conscience was telling me that this idea I had in my head about her was something that probably shouldn’t happen.
She might very well be more screwed than I was, and that was the last thing I needed in my life.
But for once, my conscience was being overruled by my need.
And I wanted her more than I wanted anything.
I wanted to forget with her.
I wanted to bury myself so far inside of her that all of my aches and pains were forgotten.
I wanted her, and I hoped she was ready for the man she was about to unleash.
“I’m tired of caring. I’m tired of everything. I just want to forget the world for a while,” she whispered.
I could feel her eyes on me, despite not being able to see them.
And I wholeheartedly agreed with everything she’d just said.
“I can make you forget,” I found myself saying.
My voice was ragged and husky, sounding just as desperate as I felt.
Then I felt her small hands on my face before she pulled me down, her lips searching for mine.
Turning my head slightly, I allowed her lips to meet mine, and the reins of my control snapped.
Her lips felt like the softest, warmest, slickest silk I’d ever touched, and she tasted like the strawberry daiquiri she’d consumed hours ago.
The groan that left my chest when her tongue touched my lips was nothing short of explosive.
She was so sweet, so controlled, so hesitant that I never once thought she’d want this from me. Knowing that she did, indeed, want this, was playing havoc with my control.
I had one hand fisted in the pillow above her head, and the other in a death grip on the comforter that was covering her and not me.
I’d never thought that it was possible to hate a piece of material, but right then I did.
It was keeping us from fully touching.
Granted, she still wore her running shorts and I still had on my jeans, but those didn’t stop me from feeling all the softness that was Izzy.