Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
“Isla, please,” I choke out, my voice breaking on her name. She laughs softly, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin on the underside of my cock, and I swear to God, I’m about to fucking explode.
“Please what?” she asks, her voice dripping with mock innocence as her tongue flicks out again, teasing me, torturing me.
“Please, just—fuck, just take me already,” I beg, my hands clutching at the sheets like they’re the only thing keeping me from falling apart. She laughs again, low and throaty, and then finally, finally, she takes me into her mouth, her lips wrapping around me in a tight, wet heat that has me seeing fucking stars.
And that’s when I know I’m fucked—completely, utterly, irreversibly fucked. Because this woman? She owns me heart and soul.
CHAPTER TEN
ISLA
It's been another long day. My feet ache in my regulation boots, and Dawson's shoulders slump with the weight of his twelve-hour shift. We stumble through a quick "shared" shower, steam rising around us, his calloused hands massaging shampoo into my hair while hot water drums against our tired muscles.
After, Dawson moves around my kitchen with practiced ease, the sizzle of garlic in olive oil filling the apartment while I measure out kibble for Alfred and open a can of food for Oreo.
We collapse onto my couch, plates balanced on our laps. Alfred claims his usual spot on Dawson's muscular thigh while Oreo wedges himself into the narrow space between us, purring like a motor. Dawson talks about a false alarm at the elementary school, his voice a low rumble beside me, but I barely catch every third word. My fingers fidget with the handcuffs hidden in my pocket, cool metal warming against my skin as I rehearse exactly how I'll use them once dinner is over.
When it’s time for bed, Dawson stands, stretches, and peels off his shirt, revealing skin so tan and golden it’s almost a sin. I follow him to the bedroom, flick on the bedside lamp, and stand in the soft glow, watching him strip down to his boxer-briefs and flop onto the mattress, limbs wide, a man entirely at home in his own body.
He looks up, sees me hovering in the doorway, and lifts a brow. “You coming to bed, or just planning on staring all night?”
“Both,” I say, and he laughs, but there’s heat in his eyes. I let him wait, slowly undoing the buttons of my shirt, one by one. He watches with hunger flashing through his blue eyes, and the longer I drag it out, the more his mouth curves into a predatory smile.
I slide the shirt from my shoulders, let it fall to the floor, then step out of my jeans, leaving me in nothing but a lacy black bra and panties set. Dawson’s eyes go dark, the kind of dark that means he’s two seconds away from throwing me on the bed and making a meal out of me. I walk over, climb onto the mattress, and straddle his hips, planting my knees on either side of his body.
For a moment, I just sit there, soaking in the feel of him under me, the solid heat of his chest against my thighs. I lean down, trace kisses along his jaw, his throat, the sharp line of his collarbone. His hands come up to grab my waist, but I catch his wrists, pinning them to the pillow above his head.
“Stay,” I murmur. He does. His pupils are blown wide, breath coming faster, and I know he’s not sure what’s coming next, but he trusts me enough to play along.
I reach over for my sweatpants, fingers fumbling for the cold metal, and when I finally pull the cuffs out, his eyes go wide. Not in fear, but in something wilder—anticipation, curiosity, hunger. I hold them up, let the lamplight glint off the steel.
“Do you trust me?” I ask.
His voice is rough as gravel, low and certain. “With my goddamn life.”
“You have the right to remain silent.” I guide his wrists to the headboard, thread the cuffs through the ironwork, and lock them with a satisfying click. “Or not.” The sound is sharper than I expect, echoing off the walls, and for a heartbeat, I freeze, half-expecting him to laugh or squirm. “The louder the better for me.” But he just lies there, arms stretched above his head, watching me with a mix of reverence and pure, animalistic want.
He growls. “Fucking hell, this is all my darkest fantasies come true.”
I can feel my confidence doubling by the second, like his surrender is some kind of fuel for every part of me that’s ever doubted my power. I press my lips to his neck, nipping at the pulse point, then lower, mapping the landscape of his chest with my mouth. Every place I kiss, he shudders a little, the tension building between us so thick I could chew it.