Page 115 of The Perfect Wrong

“Come for me, beautiful. Comeharderthan last night,” he tells me.

Yeah, there’s no holding back now.

Pleasure cascades through my veins like the steady drumming of the shower spraying us.

Somehow, he manages to hold me up, keeps me from crashing to the tile floor.

I’m one with the water and its staccato rhythm by the time I glide down from my convulsions.

And Chris won’t have it—he won’t let anything carry me away from him.

His hips speed up, lurching like an engine.

He becomes a human jackhammer.

One thick hand finds its way between my legs.

His fingers know no mercy, taming my clit, short-circuiting every nerve.

I never thought I could come twice less than a minute apart.

But Chris plays me like the master musician he is, and my body wants to sing for him with all the weight of my soul.

My eyes pop open and I gasp, holding my breath.

That burning wave crashes over me again, higher than ever, and his cock owns my depths, forcing me to leap over the edge into ecstasy.

“Delia, don’t stop. More, woman,” he whispers, deep and gravelly. “Give me more.You’ll wear my name from the inside out by the time we’re done, I swear. Come with me!”

And I do.

Those beautifully vicious thrusts leave me no choice.

I can’t believe I’m comingagainas he swells and explodes inside me, releasing a pent-up growl like a deprived lion tasting its mark.

His hips shove me against the wall as he delves so deep, as he fills me, as he pulses against my womb.

Then I break, screaming as he releases in that damnable condom an insane part of me resents.

We come together beautifully, though.

Hard and long, grinding our teeth, both of us straining for breath by the end.

A century later, Chris pulls out and cleans up, planting a few more kisses on my shoulder.

I expect him to leave me alone to finish showering.

Apparently, I should give up trying to predict this man.

He steps back into the shower, his hands roaming me again. He squirts a few pumps of body wash into his palm and rubs it into my skin.

My nose tingles, inhaling citrus and testosterone.

And I’m a little bit—okay, a lot—in love with how he explores me in this new calm, tender way that sends ten thousand butterflies soaring.

Kisses say more than words.

A caress is an entire novel.

---