Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Then, with the tip of his chin, he commands, “Lose ’em too.”
“M-my bra?”
“And panties.”
“I—”
“Anything, yeah?” he asks with flashing eyes.
My breath hitches. “Yes.”
He shifts on his feet with a deep breath. “Let’s get to it then.”
Didn’t I say he wouldn’t make it easy for me? Even so, the actual act of stripping down to nothing makes me a little nervous. Especially when there’s no reaction from him, not a single emotion or a sign that this is affecting him in some way. It’s like walking barefoot on glass. But then I think about how he must’ve felt, what he must’ve gone through tonight because of my recklessness, and my arms reach back.
If he can walk through fire for me, I can walk on broken glass for him.
My fingers are surprisingly steady as they unhook my bra and lower the straps on both arms. Then, with another roll of my shoulders, I get rid of the garment and let it drop to the floor to join my other clothes. The instant his stare brushes my bare tits, my nipples go hard. So hard that it hurts. So much so that it takes effort on my part to not reach up and touch them. To not pull at them and twist them and just… do something to them. And it only gets worse when I go for the panties and pull them down my legs. Because I realize—as always, belatedly, because he makes me feel so many things and all of them at once—that my panties are wet. They’re leaving streaks of cream down my thighs, making them glisten in the moonlight.
Now that I’m naked, he traces the shape of my body with his eyes, and for the first time I notice a little shudder in his chest. That small reaction from him puts me a bit at ease, and I take a step toward him again. But he shakes his head once more. This time, it’s physically painful to stop, but I do it because it’s his show, not mine.
“Get down on your knees,” he commands.
I dig my nails into my thighs. “What?”
“And crawl to me.”
“Crawl to y-you?”
“Anything, remember?” he growls, his face hard, his voice harder. “This is anything, darlin’, so you either drop your knees to the ground and crawl to me like the sweet little wife you’re tryin’ so hard to be or stop wastin’ my time.” My thighs clench at his raspy voice and he keeps going, “Because you are, aren’t you. Tryin’ to be a sweet little wife for me.”
I jerk out a nod, feeling a drop of my cum pulsing out of my core and running down my thigh. I am trying to show him I can be a good wife who listens to him.
“So again, let’s get to it or get the fuck out.”
As soon as he finishes, he moves. He heads to the right, his mud-streaked boots thudding on the floor as he drags a chair and proceeds to sit on it. With his shoulders straight and thighs sprawled, his hands resting so casually on them, waiting for me to choose an option: commit or leave.
But there’s really no choice, is there? I’m not going to leave. I don’t want to. And neither will I let him go, so I drop down to the floor and do as he said.
I crawl.
And every move I make toward him makes my pussy even wetter. It makes my thighs more slippery and slick. My tits are heavy and dangling, and my nipples still want to be pulled and played with. It doesn’t even matter that the wood is hard and the floor is all dirty. Or that the dirt grinds into my kneecaps and my palms as I move. It also doesn’t matter that halfway to him, I realize there’s a possibly dead body on the floor, lying in a pool of his own blood that I may have to pass through to get to him, but it’s okay. It’s the proof that Arsen came for me.
He saved me.
He keeps saving me over and over and over again, and he needs to know that. So when I get to him, I don’t just stop at his feet. I go all the way. I get between his sprawled, jean-covered thighs, and as soon as I do, they snap into action and hug my sides, making a café of his body.
And God, he’s hard. His muscles feel rock hard, harder and tenser than they’ve ever been. So I rub my hands up and down, trying to massage them as I look up. “You came.”
His features flinch at my whisper and he leans over. He reaches for me, for my braid, and captures it in his fist as he rasps, “You called for me, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
He tightens his fist. “Does that make you feel good?”