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)
I keep eye contact as I wrap my lips around the head, swirl my tongue over the slit, and slowly slide down, inch by inch. He lets out a strangled noise, a sound I’ve never heard from him before, and his hips jerk up, desperate for more. I pull back, teasing, then take him deeper, relaxing my throat until he bumps the back of my mouth.
“Oh, fuck—Isla—” he chokes out, his voice ragged. His legs are shaking, toes curling in the sheets. I set a steady rhythm, up and down, slow at first, using my hand to stroke what I can’t fit in my mouth. Every so often, I hollow my cheeks, drag my teeth just barely along the shaft, and he loses his goddamn mind.
I feel his whole body tense, every muscle drawn tight as a cable, the fight-or-flight response overridden by pure, helpless pleasure. He’s panting now, moaning my name, and every sound is a spike of electricity straight to my core.
I let go with my mouth, wipe spit from my chin, and stroke him hard and fast, watching his face as he realizes he’s not in control—not even a little. His jaw is clenched, veins standing out in his neck, and I know he’s close, right on the edge.
“You want to come?” I ask, voice gone hoarse from wanting him.
He nods, frantic, eyes wide. “Please.”
I ease up, drag my nails over his balls, and lean in to whisper, “Not yet.” I want to see him beg. I want to own every second of his surrender.
I start over, slower this time, using only my mouth, torturing him with the pace. His hands are fists, white-knuckled, straining so hard against the cuffs I wonder if he’ll snap them. Sweat beads on his skin, and I let myself get lost in him.
When I finally decide to let him come, I wrap my hand around the base, take him deep, and hum. The vibration makes him shout, a sound ripped out of him, raw and desperate. He comes hard, pulsing against my tongue, filling my mouth with heat and salt and the taste that’s uniquely Dawson.
I swallow, licking him clean, and crawl up his body, kissing the sweat off his chest, the shuddering gasp from his lips. I unlock the cuffs, free his wrists, and he grabs me, flipping me onto my back, kissing me so hard I can barely breathe.
“Fucking hell,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “I love you.”
I blink several times as his words wash over me. A smile starts deep in my soul and stretches out across my face. “I love you, too.”
He nods, forehead pressed to mine. “Thank God. Because I was worried I’d have to kidnap you and keep you hidden in my lair until you fell for me.”
“I’m glad I can keep you from falling into a life of crime.” I settle into his arms, tangled and spent, and think about what I might try next time. With him, there will always be a next time.
“It’s going to be a lifetime commitment for you,” he mutters, pulling me tight against his side.
And just like that, everything falls right into place, and I couldn’t be happier or more content.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DAWSON
I wake in the dark with the kind of erection that could break concrete, and immediately realize I’ve been sandwiched between Isla and a twenty-pound slab of judgmental cat sprawled dead center on my chest. The room is pitch black except for the faint blue sliver leaking under the bedroom door. I try to shift, but Oreo’s deadweight pins me like a furry barbell, his front paws kneading my pec.
I glance down. Isla’s face is about an inch from mine, mouth open in a perfect “o,” her breath hot against my jaw. She’s curled in so close that her bare thigh is draped over my hip, and every subtle move I make just wedges her tighter into me. I want to touch her, kiss her, do a dozen absolutely filthy things to her, but the combination of cat and inertia makes it a logistical nightmare.
On the other side of the bed, Alfred snuffles and snorts in a bed hogging coma, legs twitching as he chases something in his sleep. There’s no way in hell I’m getting out from under this pile without waking the whole menagerie.
I try again, this time slipping a hand under Oreo’s belly. The cat is a stubborn bastard, but with careful leverage, I manage to roll him up and over, off my ribs and onto the empty expanse of pillow above Isla’s head. Oreo flops, huffs, and immediately begins purring, his murder mittens digging a new groove into the comforter. Crisis one, averted.
I’m still hard as steel, my dick tenting the sheet, so obviously I half expect it to have its own shadow on the wall. Isla stirs, her eyelids flickering but not opening, and she mumbles something into my shoulder. I can’t make it out, but the sound alone nearly pushes me over the edge.