Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35372 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35372 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
I kick the door closed with the heel of my boot and pull her towards me in the same moment. She's already undoing my belt, I'm already reaching for her face. And she's got the zipper down and her warm palm around my cock before I can even start kissin' her again.
Her mouth tastes like coffee and somethin' sweet underneath, some gloss she put on hours ago that's near gone now. I kiss her slow even though my cock's already achin' in her hand. She's got a rhythm on me—slow pull, slower drag, thumb workin' the tip every pass—and I let her have it because the woman could stroke me through a blizzard and I wouldn't feel the cold.
Her tongue meets mine and I lose a second of time. Maybe more.
When we finally break, she's breathin' hard against my mouth, lips parted, eyes half-closed. I look at her and there's no crisis factory in my head, no Mike, no Lazarus, no dirt under my nails from a month ago that still won't come out. Just her, standin' in front of me in that prairie dress lookin' like somethin' I shouldn't be allowed to touch.
I touch her anyway.
My fingers go to the row of little buttons down her bodice and I work them one at a time. Slow. I could tear the damn thing but I don't, because she likes these dresses and I like her in 'em, and there's somethin' about takin' my time with a woman who spent twenty-eight years bein' rushed through her own life. Each button pops and more of her shows up underneath, pale skin and lace, some soft white thing with little scallops along the edge that's got no business bein' that pretty.
"Fuck, Savannah."
She smiles at me, still workin' my cock, grip gettin' tighter now like she's feelin' how much I want her. I push the bodice open and pull the cup of that lacy bra down with two fingers, and her tit falls free into my hand, warm and heavy and already tightenin' up at the nipple.
I palm her. Roll my thumb over her. Pinch just enough to make her draw a breath in sharp through her teeth.
She moans low in her throat and her hand on my cock gets meaner, gets faster, pumpin' me like she's tryin' to make me come right here before we even get to the bed. I let her do it for a second. Two. Because it feels fuckin' unreal — her mouth swollen from the kiss, her tit in my hand, her palm slidin' up and down my shaft — and I wanna remember exactly how this looks before I make her stop.
Then I catch her wrist.
"Easy, baby."
She looks up at me through her lashes, all innocent, like she don't know what she was doin'. She knows. She knows exactly what she was doin'.
I bend my head, drag my mouth down her throat, bite the soft spot where her pulse is goin' wild. Pull the other cup of that bra down too because I wanna see both of her, and Christ, I do. I fondle her slow, both hands now, just feelin' the weight and the softness and the way she arches into my palms like a cat that finally got what it was beggin' for.
"On your knees."
It comes out rougher than I meant. Her eyes flick up to mine and there's a second — half a second — where I see her decide somethin'. Then she's sinkin', slow, dress hangin' open, tits bare, knees findin' the rug in front of her fireplace that probably cost more than my whole goddamn trailer.
I look down at her and I can't breathe right.
Savannah Ashby on her knees in that prairie dress with her tits out and her mouth wet and her eyes lookin' up at me like I'm the answer to a question she's been askin' her whole life. This is what's wrong with me. This is exactly what's wrong. I got thirty-six dead behind the clubhouse and a fed namin' himself Mike and a brother I didn't know I had drinkin' my whiskey, and all I can think about is her tongue.
Jesus, Legion.
She wraps her hand back around me, guides me to her mouth, and waits. Looks up. Waits. Makes me watch her wait. My woman knows what she's doin' to me.
"Open up, baby."
She does.
And when her lips close around the tip of me — warm and soft and wet and perfect — every goddamn thing that happened this mornin' drops out of my head clean. Mike's folder, gone. The bikes at the gate, gone. Laz's face that looks too much like my own, gone. June's grief I earned, gone.
There's just her.
Just this.
Just the slow, sweet pull of Savannah's mouth takin' me deeper, and my hand findin' her hair, and the sound she makes low in her throat like she's been waitin' all day for this.