Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
More of her taste.
More of her touch.
More of her body.
Just. Fucking. More.
Oh, sweet, Quinn. I’m going to make you mine.
Quinn moans into my mouth, and her hands find their way to my chest. I think she’s going to push me away, but instead, I’m shocked when her nails dig lightly into my chest. Not wanting to take it too far, and knowing I very well will if we keep going, I pull back gently. Needing her to know how much I want her, though, I go back in for one last chaste kiss.
When I sit back down, I give Quinn a look I hope conveys how much I want her. Her cheeks and neck are flushed, and her breathing is labored. She’s turned the hell on. And the thought has me wanting to thump my fist against my chest like a fucking caveman. I did that to her.
“Your turn,” she squeaks out.
I pick up a card. It’s an image of gumdrops or some shit, so I down the sweet as hell shot. When I set it back down, Quinn fills it back up. She goes next, and it’s red. She laughs, then slowly unzips her hoodie. When a white shirt appears, I laugh along with her.
“You’re killing me.” I groan. “I’m sitting here, shirtless, meanwhile you have God knows how many layers on you.”
“Trust me. Seeing what’s under here”—she waves a hand over her front—“would kill you.”
I can’t help rolling my eyes, and she giggles. “Are Kinsley and I rubbing off on you? I think you roll your eyes as much as we do.”
“Why do you always put yourself down?” I ask, even though it’s not her turn to answer a truth.
She looks stunned at my question, but doesn’t deny it. “I-I don’t know,” she says with a frown.
“Yes, you do. You said your husband despised you. Did he call you names, Quinn?”
She considers my question for a moment before she nods once. “Yes,” she answers softly.
“Did he think you were fat?” Another nod. This guy is so fucking lucky he’s already buried six feet underground.
I stand abruptly, and the chair knocks back slightly, making a loud scraping sound against the wood floor. Quinn’s eyes widen curiously, and if I’m not wrong, maybe a little in fear, which only makes me that much more pissed. Fear of a man doesn’t happen on its own. A violent man causes a woman to fear.
Lifting Quinn into my arms, I carry her over to the couch. Her legs tighten around my waist, and I do everything in my power to ignore the warmth I feel between her legs.
“What are you doing?” she asks, breathlessly.
“Showing you something.” I need her to see what I see. I need to wipe away every negative and nasty thought her disgusting fucking prick of a husband put into her head. Fuck him for thinking it’s okay to make a woman feel like she isn’t beautiful, isn’t worthy of affection and attention. That because her hips are wide and her ass is plump, she’s any less perfect than anyone else.
Setting her gently onto the couch, I kneel between her open thighs and press my mouth to hers, needing to feel her soft lips against mine once again. Her lips part slightly, and I dart my tongue out and into her mouth, tasting the sweetness mixed with Quinn.
“Your lips are perfect,” I murmur. Even with my mouth so close to hers, I keep my eyes open, and she does as well. I need her to not only hear my words, but see the truth in them. “They’re soft and full, and if I could, I would spend hours kissing them.”
She averts her gaze, embarrassed. “Don’t do that,” I say. “Look at me, please.” When she does, I smile. With one hand holding myself over her, I use the other one to trail a finger down her neck to her throbbing pulse point. My lips move from her mouth to that spot. I place a soft kiss to her flesh, my lips lingering for a second as I suckle gently on her skin.
“I love the feel of your skin.” I run my nose along her flesh, breathing in her sweet scent.
“I’m pale and translucent.”
“It’s flawless and shows every emotion,” I argue, reluctantly lifting my head, when what I really want to do is bury my face into the crook of her neck. “Take your shirt off for me?” I request. I don’t doubt that right now, with her thighs clenching around mine, she wouldn’t let me take her clothes off, but I need her to do it. It has to be her. Her decision. Her facing her own fears of letting a man see her body.
Her mouth twists into a nervous frown, but then she nods and lifts her shirt off, leaving her in only a black cotton bra and sweatpants—and those socks she put on for the game. I trail kisses down her neck and over to her collarbone. There’s a small quote: this too shall pass. When I lick my way slowly across the words, she inhales sharply.