Shopping for a CEO's Fiancee by Julia Kent

Author:Julia Kent
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Contemporary Fiction, Humor, Contemporary Women, BBW Romance, Humorous, Romantic Comedy, Contemporary, Fiction, Romance, Coming of Age, New Adult & College, Women's Fiction, Humor & Entertainment, General Humor, General, Genre Fiction, Humor & Satire, Literature & Fiction
Publisher: Prosaic Press
Published: 2016-06-21T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Unlike the morning after Shannon and Declan’s wedding, this time I’m waking up with my face between Amanda’s thighs and the only person shouting at me is her.

It’s a good kind of shout. The best kind.

The kind only I can elicit.

She arrived late last night, and before we could talk about the craziness at the Turkish restaurant that afternoon, we were in each other’s arms, then bed, then out cold, tired and spooned, curled against each other in sleep as if we made each other into a fortress.

And now we have our morning spread out for us.

At least, she’s spread out.

She has this sound she makes when she’s about to come. We all do. Everyone has a sex tell. If you think you don’t, you’re wrong. Amanda’s tell transmits a signal to my brain that says Congratulations.

Achievement unlocked.

Except it’s not the achievement you think. Not a sex goal. Those are easy. Anyone can do that with the right skill and enough alcohol.

This is love. Complete release and abandon with someone you trust so deeply, you take the leap of faith that they’ll catch you.

You can only catch the tell if you have that kind of love.

“Andrew,” she says in a voice reserved for when we’re between the sheets. “Andrew.” Her hand is threaded in my hair and as I rise up, I taste the silky smoothness of her skin, which unfolds before me like a perfect, lush valley, hills and curves, rolling sweetness and a place of discovery. No woman captivates me like Amanda, and when our eyes meet and I slip into her, the way her head tips back and her throat begs for a kiss makes me offer up my tell.

It’s the sound of gratitude. I’m not grateful for sex. I’m grateful for having her.

The balcony doors are open and a massive breeze pushes the curtains in, the sound of billowing fabric catching my ears as the rush of ocean air chills my back. The sunlight in the room dims suddenly, making the room surreal, as if we’re in the eye of a storm and chaos is about to be unleashed.

Which is apt.

She’s so damn beautiful under me, her hands on my back, my shoulders, my ribs, just touching me with a possession that fires my soul. Her hair tickles her shoulders and it’s thick and tousled, makeup long gone, her lips bright red from long kisses all night. Those impossibly-big eyes peer up at me and make me stop breathing, though I keep moving, making love to her with long strokes like a clock tower bell calling out the hour, the slow, sonorous beat designed to mark time.

Now.

Now.

Now.

Now.

I dip my head down to take one nipple and it tastes like salt and velvet, like my fingerprints and her secrets. She arches up, a simple gesture that asks for more, and I’m grateful again. Fire courses through me, sweat making the slick friction between our skin even easier, the glide of body against body allowing for the insatiable build-up between us sparked by each stroke.

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