Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 148238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
I sighed against his mouth. “Okay.” Trying my best to lighten the mood, I whispered, “So what exactly did you do to me here?”
I shuddered as he wrapped an arm around my hips, pressing me firmly against his erection. “I finally gave in to you. I broke a few laws bringing you here.” He laughed at a memory still lost to me. “Goddammit, you were so young. Too young. But we both knew what we wanted. You—fuck… you never took no for an answer.”
His voice dropped to a teasing murmur. “You want to know what you did to me in return that night?”
“Yes.” My heart bucked as moisture built between my legs. “What did I do?”
His eyes glazed over with reminiscent lust. “You made me come. For the first time, but definitely not the last.”
My heart squeezed.
Letting me go, Arthur stole my hand again, drifting forward to where ever he wanted to take me. I would follow him anywhere. My mind was consumed with images of making out with my green-eyed lover, thrilling with accomplishment at making him come undone in my hands.
Arthur whispered, “You were so wet. So fucking sweet and responsive.”
My mouth went dry as my core turned deliciously damp.
“I didn’t mean to go so far. I didn’t mean to lose control. But you made it so damn hard to say no.”
The undergrowth suddenly gave way to the most perfect white private beach. The water glittered like gemstones—sapphires, turquoise, and lapis beneath the moonlight. The tree fronds acted as sentries keeping us safe from prying eyes, while the sand was white and virgin as freshly dusted snow.
The present fell away, giving way to the past.
“You can touch me, Art. I want you to touch me.”
I didn’t know what’d gotten into me but the mere thought of having his fingers on me, in me—it drove me a little mad. My mother had had the sex talk with me when I started my period two years ago. She’d told me the mechanics of lovemaking—of how babies were made and how sexually transmitted infections could tear my life apart.
But she hadn’t mentioned the coiling, twisting anticipation or the sparkling awareness I suffered whenever Art was close.
Everything she’d said had fascinated and terrified me, and I made a vow to never get involved with the opposite sex until I understood every complication.
But now?
Here.
With only the boy I adored and no one to tell us to stop—I couldn’t give a damn about the consequences.
My lips burned for his; I wanted nothing more than to spread my legs and let him see.
See me.
See what he did to me.
See just how much I wanted him to touch me, stroke me, claim me.
Just the thought of having his eyes on that part of my body drove tingles and throbs through my belly.
Arthur shifted closer, his dark hair mingling with my red curls on the sand. The icing-sugar granules were cool on my back and soft—so soft.
I’d deliberately worn a skirt, and with my heart rehomed permanently in my lungs, I grabbed his wrist and guided his hand over my thigh and beneath the daisy-print material.
His face tightened, eyes burning feverously.
A moan fell from my lips as every emotion and hyperaware sensation of that night exploded inside me.
I launched myself at Arthur.
With a grunt, he caught me, his mouth opened in shock as my hands sank into his hair, tilting his head to the perfect angle. I stole his protests—not that he was protesting—and kissed him hard.
I wasn’t aware of us moving or falling to the sand below. All I focused on was his delicious taste, intoxicating smell, and the slipperiness of his tongue as he kissed me furiously back.
“Cleo… wait.”
My teeth ground in frustration; my knees trembled as he tried to tug his wrist away.
“I can’t. You’re too—”
“If you say I’m too young one more time, Arthur Killian, I’ll punch you.”
He laughed, his arm relaxing enough for me to drag his fingers closer to where I wanted him.
“You were so hesitant about touching me. So afraid,” I panted between kisses.
“You were so damn forward,” he groaned as my fingers gripped around his cock. His loud groan echoed over the beach. I stroked him through his jeans, needing skin, needing nothing between us.
Our lips never unfused as we kissed and fumbled and rolled around in the sand.
One moment I was on top, tugging at his buckle and zipper.
The next he was on top, undoing my jeans and wrenching them down my legs.
Then we were side by side, kissing breathlessly, legs twining together, hips pulsing—bodies possessed with consuming one another.
Underwear was our nemesis. We couldn’t strip fast enough.
Sand got everywhere, but we were both past caring.
“Touch me, Art. Just once. Then I’ll stop hounding you.” I nipped at his bottom lip as his head flopped forward in defeat.
“Just once?”