My Fake Husband by Black, L. (motivational novels TXT) 📕

If a beam fell on you and trapped you, if you couldn’t escape, I would have died. I know it, Damon.”

He took my mouth then, no longer soothing me, no longer talking. He fondled my breasts through my t-shirt, his hands warm and rough, and I sparked to it, to the pinch of my nipple and the way it shot straight to my clit. Then he turned gentle, his touches feather-light, his mouth nipping at mine softly. He rubbed circles on my back and kissed the corner of my mouth.

“If you don’t want to go any farther… If you were just—”

“Are you kidding me? Jesus, Damon,” I said, exasperated.

“Are you saying you don’t wanna stop then?” he teased, his mouth crooking up at the corner.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

He surged to his feet, taking me with him, lifting me, carrying me to his big bed. I held on, awestruck, feeling like I was in a dream. My lifelong crush, hero firefighter Damon Vance, was taking me to bed to do naughty things to me all night. I wanted to pinch myself, but if this was just a vivid dream, I didn’t want to miss it.

I reached for him, pulled off his navy blue RFFD t-shirt and ran my hands all over his chest, every line of lean muscle traced by my fingers. He wore a chain around his neck, a gold cross. I reached for it, pulled it over his head.

“No offense, but I don’t think the Lord wants to see this,” I said, and he howled with laughter.

“I never dreamed you were like this. That you wanted me like this,” he said.

“Have you looked in the mirror?” I deadpanned. “You saved me, saved my business, put a ring on my finger and helped me scrub mildew off my shop walls and re-grouted the sink. You said you had faith in me when we went in for the loan, and I had cold feet. You say nice things about my cooking, and you held me when I was scared tonight. You’re the first person I want to tell good news, and the person who can help me survive the bad when it comes. Was there ever a moment in your adult life when you realized how I felt about you?” I blurted out.

He held my cheek in his palm, looking at me, his eyes full of something I couldn’t explain.

“My sister gave me nonstop shit about how I wasn’t marrying you out of the goodness of my heart. Because I always looked at you, and that at the Fourth of July last year she caught me almost falling out of my chair watching you.”

“I thought you really liked the potato salad, that you were excited to get some before it was gone,” I said, flushing pink with pleasure.

“Oh I wanted to get some of something, but it wasn’t potato salad. It was the long-legged woman in the cut-off jeans. You have no idea how many times I thought of you in those shorts and that red bathing suit,” he said, swallowing hard.

“Tell me you want me. Just me. Tonight.”

“I want you. I want to be with you all night, until we go to sleep as the sun comes up. I want to call in sick and keep you in bed all day with me. Don’t think my mind is gonna wander, Trix. It never will,” he said.

I bit my lip and then pressed my lips over his and sucked his tongue into my mouth. We made out for a while, all hands and mouths and horny teenage groping. Then the way he kissed me turned dirtier, his hands framing my face, his lips sucking at mine, and his tongue touching the corner of my mouth and retreating, baiting me onward. He rolled me on my back, covered me completely with his body, pressed me into the mattress. He kissed my freckles, my cheek and chin, my neck. I was trembling with just the pleasure of his kisses, his soft caress and the weight of his body pressing me deeper into the plush mattress. His hand slid beneath my oversized t-shirt and his fingers slipped over and around my nipples, teasing in closer and then making me bite my lip and groan when his touch skated away from where I wanted his fingers. Then he worked the shirt off of me and over my head, tossing it someplace. He dipped his head and worked my nipple with his lips and tongue until I cursed and begged and shoved my fingers into his hair. One of his hands stole along my side and down my hip. He hooked his fingers in my panties and, little by little, he drew them down my legs until I kicked them away. Then his hand stroked my stomach, sending little thrills up my body before he slipped his long fingers between my legs, sliding around in my wetness, feeling how swollen and tender I must be from arousal, how my sex-starved body was practically weeping for him.

Two fingers breached my channel, sliding in all the way to the last knuckle, curling, stroking me inside, hitting places that made me clench my inner muscles and say yes about six hundred times. I spread my legs wider, restless and wanting. He rewarded me by pressing his thumb right over my clit, not rubbing but applying subtle, increasing pressure until I felt like he was pushing an insanity button on my body. My legs were kicking out while he pumped long fingers inside of me, twisting them and pressing and then releasing my clit in a slow rhythm that built up in speed and pressure until I screamed, coming so hard that my contracting inner muscles pushed his fingers out, and I was crying his name. He looked at me, grinning. I pressed my fingertips to his lips and he sucked my fingers, his velvet tongue caressing them until I felt a flutter of pleasure in the aftermath of