Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
“No, not now. Later.”
I can’t tell if it is disappointment or relief that crosses Grayson’s features. Whatever it is, it sees him mouthing goodnight again before he exits my bedroom as fast as he entered it.
After placing his gift on the bedside table, I change into sleepwear and then slip between the sheets. I groan, hating that the bedding is no longer swamped in Grayson’s scent. Last night, the sheets were drenched with his delicious aroma.
I toss and turn for several long minutes, vying to get comfortable. When no amount of rolling lightens the weight of my stomach, I flop onto my back and stare at the ceiling. For several long minutes, I pretend the bottle I dumped onto the bedside table isn’t calling my name. The more I ignore it, the more it beckons me.
I’m not horny. I am merely eager to prepare my body for the birth of my child.
Yeah, right. If you believe that, you’ll believe anything.
I pray for the weightlessness of a feather when I slip out of bed and pad toward my bedroom door. Grayson left it partially open, and although I acted as if I were perfectly okay discussing personal matters out loud, I’ve never had sex with the lights on. The thought of touching myself is daunting enough, so there’s no way I could do it with the risk of being caught higher than necessary.
I breathe a little easier when I fail to find the shoes Grayson cleaned earlier today under the hallway table. They must be on the feet of their owner, who can burn off energy with a run since he doesn’t have a tennis ball pressing against the opening of his uterus.
Although I am alone and confident Grayson won’t be back for at least an hour, I brace the hinges on my door before closing it. When it closes without a squeak, I practically skip back to my bed, confident I can ease the tingles running rampant through my veins in under ten minutes.
The elastic on my underwear snaps against my skin when I slide them down my thighs with an eagerness I haven’t experienced in years. After kicking the damp material to the side, I snatch up the bottle of oil before slipping back beneath the sheets.
The pamphlet that came with the oil states that I should place two fingers inside myself, gently apply downward pressure toward my backside, then sweep my fingers to the sides.
My oiled-up fingers head in the opposite direction.
I tickle them past my clit and dip them between the delicate lines of my vagina before I coat the tips with a residue more slippery than the oil. My vagina dampens long before I brace my fingers at the opening. I’ve felt moist for hours, so this isn’t surprising.
Although penetration is nice, I pay more attention to my clit than the sweet spot inside me that no man has ever caressed. I roll it between my thumb and index finger before rotating it clockwise.
The buzz feels good, though it also feels weird.
I’ve never been a fan of going it alone, but the guilt is less confronting this way. I’m only stealing time from my sleep when I self-pleasure, and I’m not issuing any false promises of something more.
I can’t do more. That requires time and commitment, as well as three-course meals that take hours to prepare. I don’t have that much time—though it wasn’t an issue this evening.
The healthy thud of my clit steals my focus from recalling how many hours Grayson and I spent cooking, cleaning, and talking today. It could be bursting with electricity recalling how many times I busted Grayson watching me under hooded eyes, and how his shower lasted far longer than mine. Still, I pretend this kind of euphoric buzz is perfectly normal for me.
It isn’t. I’ve never been so tightly wound up.
As a bolt of electricity rockets through me, my nipples brush against the oversized shirt I’m wearing as a nightie. They’re hard and stiff, aching with as much desire as my pussy.
I can’t endure much more. My longing to come surpasses my need to breathe, but there’s only one way I’ll achieve the seemingly impossible.
I need to think about Grayson.
Even before hormones flooded my body, I only needed to imagine his face to climax. His hold over me should have taken a back seat when I told him the real reason I took the rap for Moses’s murder, but it didn’t wane in the slightest.
I haven’t come in over thirteen years without Grayson’s face helming my campaign, and tonight won’t buck the trend.
The fabric of my shirt slides higher when I sweep open my thighs and then spread my labia to expose the dampness of my vagina to the sticky humidity in the air.
“Oh god.”
I moan when a quick flick of my thumb over my clit teeters me close to the edge. As I toy with my clit, I slide two fingers inside myself. I don’t insert them all the way, but I act as though they don’t belong to me. I picture Grayson’s icy-blue eyes, cut jaw, and brain-numbing face hovering above me as his hand works me into a frenzy. I imagine the weight of his body pressing against mine, and the uniqueness of our combined scents when his desire to taste me becomes too much.