Unwritten (Woodlands 5)

Head throbbing, I roll over onto my back, resettle my glasses, and read the text.

Adam: On my way.

I kick off the boxers and gingerly get to my feet. A quick inventory tells me that nothing’s broken. I stagger over to the dresser and inspect my face in the mirror above it. I have a little rug burn on my cheek.

Sighing, I take the T-shirt off and rummage through my bag until I find the sexiest pair of panties I own—a fire-engine red thong that’s too uncomfortable to wear for more than a half hour. Hopefully, it comes off before then. I slip the robe on and leave it untied.

I position myself on the edge of the bed. Then move to the sofa. I toss back my hair and lean back on one arm until I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Ugh. I look like a bad catalog model.

Finally, there’s a knock on the door. I start to say “Come in” and realize like a dolt that he can’t open the door. It’s locked. I’m in a freaking hotel room. He needs a key.

Okay, I might be letting my nerves get the best of me.

Taking a deep breath, I get to my feet, carefully skirt around the coffee table, and make my way to the door. I peek through the peephole to confirm that the knock was from Adam.

He’s standing there with his hands in his pockets. His dark hair looks wet and he’s wearing a different T-shirt than the one he had on earlier. My heartbeat kicks up. He took the time to clean up for me. Seeing that settles my own nerves a bit.

I throw open the door.

“Hey,” I say, giving him a small smile.

He takes one look at me and kicks the door shut behind him. “I’m sorry,” he says, grabbing the robe ties and pulling until I’m flush against his rock hard frame. With a wave of his hand, my glasses are off and my tongue is being devoured by his as it sweeps inside my mouth. I moan and give myself over to his dominating, possessive kiss.

My head is full of cotton and clouds. The sexy underwear feels too tight. The plush, thick robe is too heavy and too coarse.

His leg slips between my thighs, lifting me off the ground. Delicious pressure is placed against my needy core. The barely-there thong protects nothing from the abrasion of his jeans, but even that feels good.

I curve my fingers around his broad shoulders. God, it’s been a long time and I don’t have much experience, but I don’t remember any guy feeling like this: big, strong, powerful.

One of his hands tangles in my hair, angling my head into just the right position for his passionate assault on my mouth while the other palms my butt. I let the robe fall off, leaving me in nothing more than the thin scrap of red.

Adam’s fingers dig into my skin. The pain only heightens my arousal. I grind against him, wishing that his jeans and shirt were gone and we were skin to skin. I can’t do anything about the jeans, so I attack his shirt, pulling it up until his hard chest is exposed, but because I’m hanging on to him and he’s holding me, I can’t get it fully off.

I pull back and try to wriggle out of his grasp.

“Oh no, you’re not getting away from me,” he rasps, walking quickly toward the bed.

“I’m trying to take your clothes off.”

“Good plan. Poor execution.” He dumps me on the bed. As I bounce lightly on the mattress, Adam reaches behind him with one hand and whips the shirt over his head. He toes off his boots and reaches down to pull off his socks. His jeans finally come off.

Through the fabric of his boxer briefs, he cups himself. The outline of his dick looks enormous, and I don’t think it’s my fuzzy vision to blame. He really is that big. I lick my lips in anticipation. I can’t wait to feel it inside me.

“Jesus, baby, you are so beautiful.” His voice is reverent, erasing any ounce of discomfort I had been feeling lying naked under his gaze. He draws a hand down the middle of my sternum, almost as if he’s laying claim to my body.

He gives me the confidence to crook my finger at him. “I’m in a hurry here. It’s been a long drought.”

“Want this?” he says cockily as he strokes himself.

“Yes, definitely.” There’s no point in pretending. I’m splayed on the bed, wearing a very damp thong. I don’t remember ever wanting anything more in my life.

“Good, because I’m fucking dying for you.” He pushes his boxers off, and his dick sticks straight out from his body, a silver piercing adorning the ruddy head.

I back up and close my legs. Alarm and arousal shoot through me in dueling forms. Alarm, because I don’t think he’s going to fit—and arousal because, holy hell, what if he does? He’d fill every inch of me.

“It’ll fit perfect,” he says, reading my mind. Then he grabs my ankles and drags me down to the edge of the bed.

He pushes my thighs apart and draws his fingers up my wet channel, spreading my arousal. Then his mouth replaces his fingers and all my fear and apprehension die a quick death under his erotic assault.