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)
There’s a kink in my neck, too, that I try to get rid of by stretching the length of it. Which is when I realize something. That I’m still in the same position that he put me in. I mean, why would I be in a different position; we’re literally stuck together on top of a horse, but still. Now that we aren’t galloping or I’m not lulled to sleep, I’m becoming aware of certain things.
My back is all but melted into his front, the side of my face is cradled between his pecs, and my spine is sagging and settled cozily into his pelvis. And then there are his thighs that are hugging mine; his arms that blanket my arms. With one of his hands grabbing the reins while the other, God, the other, is splayed wide on my belly. It’s so large that his thumb goes up and grazes the underside of my breast and his pinkie is almost tucked into my belly button.
Not to mention, the heel of his palm.
He’s pressing it into my belly, using it to keep me all locked in and tethered to his hard body. Did it get harder over the course of a day? Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m not afraid for my life like I was yesterday when he was threatening me, so now I’m finally realizing there’s no way he’s made of muscles and bones, no.
I think he’s made of steel or iron.
Really hot iron with ridges and grooves that I want to rub up against. I don’t know where the urge comes from, but I want to. I need to. So I arch my back, pressing my head back on his chest, and wriggle my hips, whimpering.
I can’t believe how good this feels, moving against him, rubbing up against his torso and twisting my hips in the confines of his thighs. Which is why it comes as a shock when he abruptly stops me. His large hand on my tummy grows rigid and pushes in even more as he effectively traps me against the cage of his body.
Then, dipping his face down, he growls into my ear, “Stop moving.”
My eyes are wide as I blurt out, “I wasn’t.”
It’s a total lie, of course. And in the face of the vow he made to me only a few hours before, no less. But I couldn’t think of anything to say when I’m trying really hard to ignore the scrape of his stubble against the side of my face. It’s just as sharp as it was yesterday, but somehow I don’t mind it. And his scent of leather and musk, which I inhale with every breath I take, is still as aggressively masculine as it was before. But all it does is make me feel all soft and feminine rather than weak and terrified.
It grows even thicker when he exhales sharply at my lie and flexes his fingers on my belly. I eye that hand, big and bronzed with veins going up and down the back of it, and find myself saying, “It’s just that, uh, you’re very hard.”
His chest jerks behind me. “Rubbin’ up against me isn’t gonna make me any less so.”
“And very big,” I continue.
His fingers on my belly flex again. “Again, writhin’ on my lap like a goddamn stripper isn’t gonna make me any less big.”
I’m not an idiot.
I know what he’s saying. I know what I’m saying too. I just don’t know why I put it that way. Probably residual sleep and all my aches and pains, and whatever is happening to me at this proximity and how secure he keeps me against his body on my first horse ride. But that stripper comment was uncalled for. Especially after what he did last night.
So I try to sit upright as I say, “And you’d know that, wouldn’t you.”
He keeps his hand firmly placed on my belly, refusing to give me even an inch. “I would and I’d probably slide a twenty-dollar bill into your thong and send you on your way because you’re just wastin’ my time.”
Gasping, I elbow his gut and he grunts, flinching. “That was extremely offensive.”
“No less true,” he murmurs. “I did vow I wouldn’t lie to you.”
“Yeah, well I’d never dance for you anyway,” I throw back, ignoring the racing of my heart.
“I think you just did.”
I elbow him again. “And if I’m a twenty-dollar stripper, why are you so hard?”
I can’t believe I’m talking about this so casually. Or that I actually want to wiggle some more and feel that hardness on my back. Maybe being kidnapped and fake-marrying-by-force a criminal cowboy is breaking my brain.
“Because,” he replies, his voice low, “I spent the last eight years behind bars with just my hand for company. Not to mention, didn’t find the relief I was lookin’ for last night either so anything from a little breeze to a soft, buttercup-smellin’ body wriggling in my lap could get me hard.”