Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63391 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63391 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
“Clothes off,” I demand again. “Now.”
He slips off the bed, his gaze never leaving mine, and starts unbuttoning his shirt at a maddening pace. He’s teasing me, prolonging the torture until I can touch him. I refuse to break. Sitting up, I dig my fingers into the sheets and watch his torturously slow striptease.
I drink in the rippling muscles of his chest once the shirt is gone. I lick my lips at the sight of his powerful arms, those same arms that carried me into this room. He watches me watching him, performing solely for my pleasure.
I bite my lip when my gaze lands on his happy trail, and he unhooks the button of his trousers with agonizing leisure, as though unwrapping a gift. He is the present, and I’m the greedy recipient.
No matter how many times we do this, or how many times we will, I love the sight of his erect cock. The curvaceous member is eager to enter me as it’s already glistening with pre-cum when he frees it from his boxers. I rub my thighs together for a scrap of friction as I feel the heat in my stomach tighten in need.
My body is desperate for him, chest heaving as he steps out of his boxers and prowls toward me. There’s no other word for it. He’s a predator on the hunt. He climbs over me, slow and sure, grabbing my ankle, and gently tugs until I’m pinned beneath him.
“You want this?” he asks, slowly grinding his cock against my thigh.
“Yes,” I moan, already halfway gone.
“Then it’s your turn to get naked,” he commands, and I’m more than willing to comply.
I slide the dress straps over my shoulders and shimmy out, making sure our bodies brush as I squirm beneath him. He nearly growls while helping me discard the fabric. Only one small piece of clothing remains between us, and the hunger in his eyes says he wants to tear it off with his teeth.
The sheer lace bra offers almost no support and even less coverage, which is exactly why I chose it. He’s speechless as he traces the swells of my breasts, watching in fascination while my nipples harden beneath the fabric.
“You really do live to drive me insane,” he murmurs, then wraps an arm around my waist and flips us so I straddle him. “I want to see those gorgeous tits bounce while you ride my cock.”
I need no further invitation. Reaching behind me, I flick open the clasps of the bra and let my breasts bounce free. I guide his cock to my entrance, and, slick with arousal, he slides in, filling me almost to the hilt in one long glide.
“Fuck,” he groans as I sink down onto his perfect cock.
He feels as though he were molded for me, built to drive me wild in ways I never imagined. I rise slowly before slamming back down, forcing his head to roll back on the pillow.
“You said you wanted to watch,” I remind him, so breathless I’m amazed any sound escapes.
His eyes open slowly, and I see how fiercely he clings to control.
“Let go, baby,” I whisper. “Come for me.”
I ride him hard and fast, watching his composure fracture piece by piece. Even so, he holds back. When one hand reaches up to grab and fondle my breast and the other finds my clit, I understand why. He wants me to come first. He commands it without a word. I’m a bowstring pulled tight, ready to snap, and then he whispers, “I love you, Katya.” That is the final cut. My walls seize around him as a powerful orgasm crashes through me in wave after wave.
I hear him moan my name as he empties inside me, but it’s distant like a shout tossed over crashing surf. I’m barely in my body anymore, floating somewhere else where the only sensation is pleasure knocking me off my feet.
I drift back to earth by degrees, and when I do I’m wrapped in his arms, our chests pressed tight. He strokes my hair and murmurs nonsense against my skin. Somehow I understand every word, another language I’ve learned without realizing, and I feel them burn through me.
Later, after we’ve cleaned up and he’s cradling me in his arms, a weight settles in my chest. If I don’t speak now, it will steal every breath from my lungs.
“Isaac,” I whisper, sitting up in bed and staring down at him.
He blinks sleepily, but the instant he registers my expression he bolts upright.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his hands immediately moving to my abdomen. “Is it the baby? Are you okay?”
His concern is so tender, so genuine, that tears prick my eyes. That reaction, of course, does nothing to calm him. His expression turns grave, the wheels in his mind spinning as he decides what to do next.