Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 112961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
“Holy shit,” he breathes against my spine. His forehead is sweaty when he presses it between my shoulder blades. “Holy shit.”
My ears are ringing, skin prickly and aware that I’ve taken a new shape. I can feel my heartbeat in my windpipe; my thoughts are warped with thrill and pleasure and the tight, hyperaware realization that I want him close to me every second of every day from here on out. I want to tattoo my name into his skin and shout his name a hundred times and make sure everyone hears.
He shifts back and away, standing at the end of the bed. I’ve never felt so physically drained and spiritually full all at the same time. I collapse forward onto the warm mattress, and roll to my back, staring up at the ceiling.
Connor gazes down at the situation around me. “This bed is a disaster.”
“Let’s put it back together so we can destroy it again.”
He laughs. “I might need a minute.”
“Okay.” I throw an arm across my face. “But only one.”
He leaves, bare feet padding across the tile into the bathroom. Quiet shuffling. Water running.
I feel like I’m floating.
He returns and gently touches his fingers to my inner thigh before pressing a warm, wet cloth there, drawing it up to where a pleasant ache throbs, cleaning me with slow, careful hands.
“Ready?” he asks.
I push up onto an elbow. “I am. Are you?”
He shakes his head but kisses me, distracting with the familiar drag of his teeth along my lower lip, and then presses a fresh, cooler cloth between my legs. The shock immediately shifts to a soothing bliss.
“We went at it quite a long time. I’m worried you’re gonna be sore.”
I hum into his lips. “Good sore.”
The light from the bathroom sends gold along his arms, his fingers, and I feel like he’s painting me with stardust. It’s crazy, but I need him again. This is a choking, panicky feeling. I am infatuated, I am mesmerized by everything he does. When he stands to return the washcloths to the bathroom I grab his forearm, taking the damp cloths from him and tossing them somewhere to the side, out of sight.
“Don’t go.”
“I was just—”
“I don’t care. I don’t want you to leave my sight.”
With a smile, he climbs back over me.
“Look at you,” he whispers into my neck. “A needy cuddler. Who would have guessed?”
“I’m not usually.”
“No?”
“What have you done to me, Connor Prince III?”
He aligns his body beside mine, pulling me right up against him, coaxing my leg over his hip. “Only a fraction of what I’ve thought about doing.”
“You think about me when you’re alone?” I ask.
Connor hums, the sound raspy and deep. “All the time.”
“Me, too.”
He pulls back, grinning at me. “You do?”
“Of course I do,” I admit, and he tucks some of my tangled hair behind my ear. “Sometimes it’s sexy stuff, and sometimes I just really want to hang out with you. I like you.”
“I like you, too.” His hand smooths down my side, over my thigh. “Christ, you’re so soft.”
It seems absurd to me that I haven’t ever experienced such a basic building block of intimacy—post-sex languishing, lazy kisses and touches that are somehow more aware and more hazy—but I’m realizing I’ve been shitty at allowing any post-coital connection. These smaller kisses that lead nowhere, words spoken into skin, talking about the sex we just had with vulnerability and honesty and giddiness. Something creaks open inside me, a door to a secret room.
“That was the best sex of my life,” I say.
He doesn’t look surprised or skeptical. He says only, “Same,” as his lips make a warm path down my neck.
“I want to do it again.”
He laughs. “Do you see how sweaty I am?”
“Mmm, yes.” I run my hands over his shoulders. “Let’s go rinse off together.”
We stand and I see he was right: the bed really is a disaster. Connor holds my hand even for the short walk to the bathroom, and it’s good he does because my legs are shockingly wobbly. He presses his front to my back as we wait for the water to heat, his arms banded around my waist. He is a whole planet behind me, a sun.
Under the water, we share wet kisses and sudsy hands and it’s not long before he’s impatient again, too. He drips footprints on the bathroom floor as he rushes out to hunt for the second condom. Such confidence in this man who packed up his things earlier today.
This time the cold shower wall is at my back and his skin is hot, pressed all along my front. It’s slow and careful, then hard and frantic, his fingertips gripping bruises into my thighs, his body thrusting so deep it obliterates every other sensation. I don’t know how I’m going to function if I have to leave this room and act normal after this. I don’t know how I’m going to pretend I don’t want him with a clawing hunger every time I see him.