Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 132437 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132437 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
“Well…” He cleared his throat and flopped his one free arm around. “I’ve been in better situations.”
With a muffled grunt, he tried to go back. With a strangled curse, he tried to push himself forward.
“Pivot.” She coughed. “Pivot, pivot—”
“This is not a Friends episode.”
“You’re a fan, too? I didn’t think anybody watched the old school stuff anymore.”
“Memes—” Grunt. Curse word. More grunt. “Only from memes.”
But he gave it a good shot, rolling to the side, one of his Converse All Stars bracing at the juncture between the windshield and the dash. And what do you know, that change in position… changed everything.
She was face to face with the front of his hips.
And there was nothing like getting an eyeful of everything she had suspected he had in those jeans.
The outline of his arousal could have given a tree trunk a run for the money.
Okay, that was hyperbole.
But not by much.
Denne just had to reach out and touch—and the instant she brushed her hand against that rigid length pushing at the denim, that big male body straightened every single joint it had. As a dull thump and an Ow! rippled forward from the back, she had a feeling his head had knocked into the door.
“Oh, shit, sorry—”
“Don’t stop,” he said. “Oh, fuck—”
No reason not to follow instructions, right?
With a blissful feeling of control, she moved her hand up and down, exploring his shaft, the blunt head, what was below the arousal. In response, his hips jerked toward her, then started rolling like he would when he was inside of her.
“You like what I’m doing to you?”
“Yes, Jesus, yes.”
“Good.” She smiled as she cupped his sack and he moaned again. “So I’m not hurting you?”
“No! Don’t stop yet—”
Popping her brows, she paused her explorations and tried to see into the rear. There was no way of looking past all the muscle in the way.
“Can you even breathe?” she asked with a grin.
“Who the fuck cares,” he countered hoarsely. “Just don’t stop!”
As if to prove how serious he was, he arched his spine to push his erection into her palm, even as something let out a squeak that sounded like metal fatigue in the seatback. Hell, maybe it was the engine mount, with the way he was straining. And then he started pumping against her hand and there was only one thing she could do. She released that top copper button and unzipped the—
His arousal exploded out like it was gunning for her mouth, and there was no question what to do next.
Denne parted her lips and took him in. All the way to the base.
The roar Allhan let out shook the truck. Or maybe that trembling was because his body was seizing.
“Please,” he begged. “Please… Denne, oh God…”
Wasn’t that the nicest sound. Better even than the engine on this frickin’ Ford.
Retracting herself, she popped him out of her mouth, and then licked him like the ice cream he was, savoring his taste. Another deep-throat. Annnnd out. Down to his base again. Meanwhile, Al was panting like he was running at a full tilt.
And he also didn’t seem to be worried that he was having the head rush to beat all head rushes, no doubt.
A rhythm was easily found, easily followed, and the pleasure she was giving him rebounded into herself. His sawing breaths, the way that foot kicked against her windshield, how his hand grabbed on to the headrest with the veins straining down to his fingertips. All of it was so raw and hungry, so desperate and impatient, that his pleasure wiped out everything that was going on in her own mind.
And that was a gift, it really was.
“You gotta stop—”
“Why?” she said against the slick tip of his erection. “You’re not into this?”
“I’m gonna come—”
“And I’m going to swallow.”
The second those words registered, he locked against her face and started to orgasm. And just like she promised, she milked him, suckling every ounce he gave her, and she loved it. The whole fucking thing. Especially the taste of him.
As well as the scent of dark spices that suddenly filled the truck.
Even though she knew what it meant.
And him bonding to her was the worst complication they could both have.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Well, wasn’t this fucking cozy.
Paul Bunyan meets Architectural Digest.
As L.W. limped into the living room of Shuli’s rustic safe house, he wondered how many properties the aristocrat owned. At least all the splotchy paintings had disappeared. Then again, it was hard to hang things on logs.
Naturally, the “cabin” wasn’t a shitty hunter’s reject from a hundred years ago. It was easily ten thousand square feet in size, had thermopaned windows with daylight shades, and a full HVAC system. Decorated with a professional eye—he assumed some glymera-approved designer had done the magic—the place was filled with all kinds of Adirondack crap: Furniture made out of logs and sticks, rugs that were braided and in deep reds, blues, and greens, landscapes in old gilded frames. The floors were huge planed boards, and the staircases up and down had steps made of the same. Overhead, thick beams that had been hand-cut some eon ago were the kind of thing you’d have to burn down to get to buckle.