Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
His eyes flick back and forth between mine. “Didn’t have your name either.”
I bite my lip. “So then, you’ll write me a letter every day and you’ll start with Dear Reverie.”
“Dear Reverie.”
“Yes, and then end it with Your Arsen.”
His fingers flex around my wrist. “What else?”
“And then you’ll tell me one true thing about yourself.”
He watches me a beat before saying, “Yes, ma’am.”
My pussy spasms at his words, and I lean up and put my mouth on him. He still tastes like me and himself, and it’s so intoxicating, my favorite flavor, that I can’t help but moan. And I guess we’re his favorite flavor, too, because at my moan, he presses into my mouth harder and takes over. He rolls me to my back and settles between my thighs as we make out for the next several minutes. I’m so horny and desperate that when he breaks the kiss, I writhe under him, trying to rub my pussy against his hard dick.
But before I can beg him to fuck me, he pushes away from my body and gets off the makeshift bed. Coming to his feet, he starts to walk away when I come up on my elbows and call out, “Where are you going?”
My words sound breathless probably because I am that way. But also because I’m watching him move in his space, all naked. His back, broad and branded, is muscular as ever, rippling with so much power that I’m as stunned as I was the first time I saw it. It tapers down to his narrow hips with the cutest two dimples that I want to lick and poke my tongue in, that then give way to his ass, and I think I’m dying. I move restlessly on the bed, clenching my thighs as I stare at the work of art that is his ass.
So muscular and rounded. Like he spent all eight years behind bars doing squats. Or rather he spent his entire life doing squats, and maybe he did. My cowboy husband. Not to mention, his ass is tanned as well. As much as the rest of his body, and for some reason, that makes me even more desperate to bite into it, his honey skin. He goes to a small dresser at the far end of this bedroom-like space and grabs a bottle of water along with something else that I don’t get to see. And then he’s turning around and heading back to the bed, and I’m watching his dick.
That looks just as hard as it was last night.
All ruddy and leaking and the place between my thighs gets even wetter, if possible. I’m sure that I’m leaving a stain on his sheets, but after last night, I don’t care. All I care about is his dick, hard and pointing up, throbbing and slapping against his hard abdomen, leaving a trail of cum on his dark hair and bronzed skin.
He gets to the bed and kneels down at the end. “Eyes up here.”
Caught at being a perv, I snap my gaze up. “I wasn’t staring.”
“Somethin’ down there says you’re a liar.”
I blush. “Well, you were staring too.”
He drops his gaze down. “I was.”
I follow it and gasp.
He’s looking at my breasts. My naked breasts because I am… naked. I knew that of course. But I haven’t thought about my clothes since yesterday, and while it was okay in the heat of the moment, now I just feel awkward. So coming up to my knees, I go to snatch the sheet, but he grabs my wrist. “No.”
My cheeks are flushed. “But I—”
“Not a chance.”
“I need to cover myself. I—”
His fingers flex. “Not from me.”
There’s so much possession in his gaze, so much ownership, that I wonder if every husband stares at his wife like that. If he does, then how does a woman not spontaneously combust, both from embarrassment and from lust.
“You have your rules and I have mine,” he says. “And it’s that you won’t hide your perfect, absolute dream of a body from me.”
I squirm and bite my lip. “But I’m not—”
“Don’t,” he commands, his jaw clenched. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
I swallow. “But I’m really not.”
His chest moves with a large breath as he vows, “You are and before these three weeks are out, I’m gonna make you believe it. I’m gonna make you believe you’re worth protectin’ too. Because your parents did a shit job of that.”
I ignore his “three weeks” decree and say, “I didn’t protect my mother either. I hid behind the couch. I never even t-told anyone what happened—”
“You were a kid,” he reminds me. “The burden of protection was on her, not on you. You did what you had to, to survive. You’re a survivor, remember? Brave and magnificent. You did what you had to do to stay alive because of the monster who was your daddy.”