To Hold by Alessandra Torre Read Free Book Online Page A

the depth of the passion, the idea that this man wants me — has thought of me. My body loves the feeling of him inside of me, his hands which are now cupping my breasts, his mouth planting soft kisses along my back as he continues his fuck. A fast, hurried fuck, as if he is worried that I will disappear, and he needs to get his fill of me first.
    He is not Nathan. Our bodies do not mold in perfect synchronization, our arches and valleys do not coincide. There are times when he moves left and I move right. But he has fire for me; he cares. He is a living, breathing man who has the capacity to love, who looks at me and sees something more than a contract.
    He returns me to my back, his body settling over me, his mouth softer on mine, kissing me slowly and softly as his strokes bring me there , to the point where my mind stops thinking, and I come, my breaths shuddering into his mouth, my body clenching and contracting around him, causing his eyes to shut and, a moment later, his own finish to come.

CHAPTER 13
    Word: 9 letters
    Clue: what exploration often leads to
    L ife in wealth is a beautiful thing. Our streets are unclogged, our nights mosquito-free, our comfort managed and attended to twenty-four hours a day. My latest hobby is speeding, pressing the gas pedal hard enough to feel a slight vibration in my legs, my Mercedes jumping to attention, hugging the streets with a purpose. I have been pulled over twice, both times given a warning, despite my generous attempt to accept a ticket. Attempt is putting it lightly. I practically begged the uniformed men to write me a ticket. But apparently in this county, where the streets are lined in gold and the property taxes cover more than ten times the city’s budget, ticket revenue is not needed. Laws can be broken with only a slap on your diamond-studded wrist.
    My tires squeal slightly as I make a too-tight, too-fast turn into the bookstore parking lot. Our town refuses something as tacky as a book superstore, chain stores apparently frowned upon by the uber-rich. We have no Applebee’s, no Chico’s, no Walmarts, those storefronts replaced with designer boutiques, wine bars, and Mom and Pop stores owned by millionaire’s bored housewives.
    The bookstore is no different, owned by two trophy wives who had a sudden, unplanned thought one day to sell books. It is housed in a three-story plantation home, different rooms dedicated to different genres, antiques and comfy couches stuffed next to towering bookshelves and stacks and piles of books. I love it.
    Today I choose to explore the Adventure room, located on the third floor, tall windows on one side, separated by tall bookshelves. The other side is dominated by a large map, framed and stretched from the floor to ceiling, a custom piece that shows a city-planner’s view of our privileged corner of the world and the area that surrounds it.
    I look at the map, my fingers trailing over the familiar words: Jefferson Street. The Crystal Palace’s home, a lofty street name that belongs in a downtown area, not a dead-end street twenty minutes from town. My fingers travel over familiar routes, tracing my route home, a route I traveled countless times. Drunk, sober, exhausted, irritated. My finger heads north, down winding highways, through cities and towns until I reach Swankville, my new stomping grounds. Where road names like Hemingway and Baltimore scream upper class, roundabouts instead of intersections, crowded streets giving way to wide roads, golf courses, and parks on every corner. My fingers slow, coming to a stop at my new home, Nathan’s large estate.
    I frown, a wisp of something flickering in my brain, like an erratic synapse that is firing out of order, catching my attention all the same. I reach for it, dig for it, but it is like the faded memory of a dream: gone. I move, back to the Crystal Palace, retracing the route, my finger sliding slowly across the glass, my mind open, waiting for that escaped wisp of thought.