Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 54103 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 271(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54103 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 271(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Presumably as intensely as I do.
"Do you always give strangers nicknames?" she asks.
"You didn't specify how I was looking at you."
"Yeah – and I won't. Because it's inappropriate."
"That indicates it was sexual, then."
"For this painting, I'll need you to do your best not to speak if possible. I need concentration. Pencils were my first love; painting takes more effort. Can you manage that?"
"If it means I can watch you, piccola pittrice, I could sit here indefinitely."
After roughly an hour, she rises and stretches her arms overhead. The hem of her shirt shifts slightly, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of skin.
"You're looking at me in that way again."
I can't help it. I've likely had the same expression throughout the entire time.
"No – it's subtly different."
I stand, rolling my shoulders, stretching my neck from side to side. "How so?"
"Before, you resembled a caged animal. Now you look like you also appear... impressed."
"You read me like a book."
"I must need more classes, then, because I can only read some of your few pages."
"Maybe those fragments are the only significant ones."
"Am I supposed to know what that means?"
I approach her, conscious of her sharp intake of breath, the vibration that courses through her exquisite body. She gazes up at me with eyes brimming with restrained desire. She's trying to conceal it, combat it, but unsuccessfully.
"It means that, like everything between us, we can block out the rest of the world."
"Whatever you say, Mr. Stranger."
When I grip her hips, she emits a tempting gasp. Her luscious curves press against me as I pull her closer. My arousal intensifies.
"Why do you keep saying that?"
"Because we are strangers."
She puts her hands on my chest, but she doesn’t push me away. I lean down, staring into her eyes. “Just because we only met recently, that doesn’t mean we can’t have chemistry, passion, attraction… How do you think people get together at all, Vignette? They feel hard, and they give in to those feelings.”
“I wouldn’t know. My only love is art.”
“I’m not asking you to love me. Just not to hate me.”
“As annoying as it is, stranger, I don’t think I could hate you even if I wanted. Are we done?”
“Done?” I counter.
She squeezes her hands against my chest, her fingernails digging through my shirt. “Let… go.”
“Say that like you mean it.”
She shudders, then whispers something too quietly for me to hear.
“I don’t think I can say it like I mean it,” she snaps.
“Good.”
She talks a big game about stopping this, about us being strangers, blah blah blah, but when it comes to this pure uncontrollable passion, nothing can stop us. Our kiss is explosive. It shatters any ideas she might’ve had about keeping our distance.
One night? We can’t limit ourselves to that.
She opens her mouth, gasping as our tongues brush against each other. Lust erupts in the tiny space between our pressed-close bodies. There’s nothing but hunger. My length is solid as we stumble across the garden, toward the fountain.
I sit down and pull her into my lap. She straddles me, her warm crotch caressing my thickness through our clothes. Her hands smooth over my shoulders, down my back, as she rocks back and forth.
I growl with obsession as I rock back and forth, the tip of my hunger burning as it rubs against my pants. Her pussy presses against me, hinting at the pleasure we could share.
“What time is your mom home?” she asks, her lips red, her cheeks flushed.
“Why would you want to know a thing like that… stranger？”
She groans, half frustration, half pent-up pleasure, trying to find a vent. “Don’t be a jerk. Do you seriously want to tease your way out of this?”
“I don’t know when she’ll be back. But it sounds to me like you want to see the spare room.”
Her eyes glimmer with desire. She looks tipsy. I know the feeling. “What gave you that impressi—”
She laughs in delight when I stand and cradle her to my chest.
“How strong are you?” she says, giddy.
“Not strong enough. I can’t resist you.”
“Have you even tried?”
I carry her toward the house. “The whole time you were painting me, I was trying not to get rock solid. I was trying not to fall for you.”
“Fall for me and get rock solid, hmm?”
I kick open the door to the hallway and carry her up the stairs. “Your passion for your art would make even a cold bastard fall for you. And the way you narrow your eyes, bite your tongue, shift that curvy body…”
Carrying her up the stairs quickly, I almost run to the spare room. A cynical part of me wonders if I’m hurrying because I don’t want Sienna to go back to what seems to be her natural state: distancing herself, resenting me, fighting this.
There’s no sign of that when I drop her on the bed. She moans and claws at my shirt, pulling me on top of her. I climb atop her, kissing her again.