Page 68 of Snowbound
Owen’s dirty talk is the foreplayI didn’t know I needed.I can’t even think straight, words tumbling out of my mouth just to keep him going.
“Yes.Mmm.”
His fingers slide between my thighs, finding just how soaked I am. He groans, low and ragged.
“Fuck, Emma. You’re soaked. Dripping. You want to be fucked like the dirty girl you are?”
“Yessss.”
He pulls me up onto my knees and yanks the rest of my clothes off like they need to goyesterday. My cheek’s still pressed to the rug, my body burning.
“Say it again,”he growls, gripping my ass just right.
“I want to be fucked like a dirty girl. Like your dirty girl.”
His growl is animalistic when he reaches into his pocket and, to my surprise, pulls out one of my handmadecoupons and flips it around to show me. “Cashing this one in.”
His eyes flash at me, halfway between wanton sadist and sexy lover. “Beg.”
“Please. Please fuck me. I need it. I need you to ruin me.Please,Owen,” I plead, pouring every ounce of want into my desperate begging.
He doesn’t make me wait. Not this time.
He slams into me hard and deep, stretching me, dragging a cry from my throat. His grip bruises my hips. Each thrust brutal, relentless.
“You want to be filled, lass? Used? You want my cock to make you forget your own fucking name?”
“Yes, god—yes.”
“You like being bent over like a whore,don’t you?”
I choke on a moan. “Yes. I love it. I love it when you fuck me like this.”
His hand slides around to my throat. Not tight, just there. A claim.
“You’re mine,” he growls. “No one else gets to see you like this. No one else hears these sounds. You come for me, baby. No one else.” His voice is hoarse and thick with arousal and something I can’t quite name. “Tell me you’re mine.”
“Yours. Only yours.”
He pounds into me until I’m shaking. Until my body gives out and I collapse into the rug, gasping. He follows, coming with a curse, emptying into me.
His forehead meets my back, and his arms surround me. My cheeks are wet. I don’t know when I started crying.
He doesn’t let me go, just pulls me into his lap, wrapping the blanket around us.
The snow’s still melting. Every drop feels like a grain of sand in an hourglass.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Owen
“How’s that book coming along?”I ask her. We sit languidly by the orange embers of a morning fire.
“Well,” she says, biting her lip. “Took Christmas off because who works on Christmas?”
“You do,” I tell her sternly. “You came here to finish your book, and goddamn it, woman, you’re not leavin’ till it’s done, even if I have to tie you to the chair myself.”
Blinking, she stares at me for a moment. “Do you have any idea how productive writers would be if they had the hound of hell,you,chomping at their heels to finish their books?”
