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Back This Woman Save as PDF
Chapters (44)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise For Jodi Ellen Malpas
  3. Dedication
  4. Prologue
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. About Jodi Ellen Malpas
  44. Also by Jodi Ellen Malpas

“Hey,” she yelps, covering her boob. “I need to take my grips out. They’re digging into my head.” She slips one between her teeth and starts feeling at her head again. I have an overwhelming urge to help her, so I sit up, taking the grip from between her teeth with mine and spitting it out. Now, back to the boobs. I hold her around her back and haul her onto my face, closing my eyes in bliss. I could stay here with her soft, warm skin all over my face forever. But . . . hairgrips. I begrudgingly pull out and give each nipple a peck before turning her around on my lap, letting her settle between my bent legs.

“Let me.” I start feeling through her hair, pulling out the little metal things one by one, locks of her hair tumbling down with each grip I remove. “How many have you got in here?” I ask, dropping another into her palm.

“A few. I have a lot of hair to keep up.”

“A few hundred?” I ask on a light laugh, finding more and more. I massage her scalp, ensuring I’ve caught every one. “There, I think I got them all.” I relieve her of the grips, leaning over to place them on the nightstand, and then pull her back to my front, encasing her completely in my arms, ensuring she can’t go anywhere. Her hands land on my shins and start stroking, her head limp against my shoulder. God, I love how she touches me. Her breathing pattern has changed. She’s tired, but she still strokes me, and it makes me realize that it’s been years since I’ve been touched with such gentleness and care. It’s not a touch to incite sex, just gentle movements.

“How old are you?” she asks sleepily, and I laugh softly, wondering if she will ever let this go. Probably not. The fact she’s asked twice in an hour is evidence that it’s playing on her mind. And that hurts. It really does matter.

“Twenty-three,” I reply quietly, running my hand through her hair, the silky, soft strands slipping through my fingers easily. I look down at the back of her head, swallowing, breathing in, trying not to think it.

But it’s inevitable.

I’m terrified she’s going to slip through my fingers. Walk away and take everything I’ve always craved with her.

Peace. Calm. Serenity.

Please don’t walk away.

I reach down and pull the covers up over her waist before wrapping myself around her again, my nose finding its place in the crook of her neck.

And I decide here and now, with her warm in my arms, I need to do everything in my power to guarantee she doesn’t slip through my fingers.

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