Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Cash nudges me, his grin widening. “C’mon, man. Pick your poison.”
My jaw clenches, my fists tightening at my sides. The last thing I want to do is play pool volleyball right now. The only thing I want to do is drag Poppy inside, press her up against the first flat surface I can find, and finish what we started.
But everyone’s watching.
I take a slow, deep breath, my eyes still locked on Poppy. “Fine,” I say, forcing a smirk that probably looks more like a snarl. “I choose Poppy.”
Obviously.
Cash’s brows shoot up, and Paul’s jaw tightens, but Poppy’s eyes snap up to meet mine, her cheeks darkening.
“You playin’?” I ask, keeping my tone casual, like I didn’t have my fingers inside her three minutes ago. “Or are you too tired?”
“Actually, no. I think…” She levels me with a stare. “I’m going to take a hot shower.”
And just like that, my dick is hard again…
poppy
. . .
He’s going to follow me—I know he is.
How do you know, you might be asking?
Because Turner is a man, and men are predictable.
I push through the sliding glass door, the wet glass cool against my fingertips, and the second it clicks shut behind me, a wicked grin spreads across my lips.
He’s going to follow me.
I saunter through the living room, dripping water on the hardwood, feeling the damp, slick fabric of my bikini cling to every curve. My pulse continues a steady throb between my legs, skin still buzzing from Turner’s hands on me, his mouth against my ear, his fingers deep inside me beneath the water.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror as I pass—a girl with flushed cheeks, pulling at her wet hair elastic, removing it from her hair and giving it a shake.
I want more.
I make my way to the bathroom, stepping inside and leaving the door ajar. My heart is pounding, eagerness zipping through my veins, making my skin hum, nipples pebbled against the wet fabric of my bikini.
I untie it.
Let it fall.
Push my bottoms down, party noises muffled and distant. Yelling. Whooping. Drunken fun outside.
Me inside.
Me and my anticipation.
I’m buzzing with it.
I step out of the bathroom, completely bare, go into my bedroom and climb onto my unmade bed, the cool sheets a shocking contrast to my overheated skin, and settle in the middle, my legs spread, wet hair falling against the pillow.
My heart pounds as I reach up, trailing my fingers over my breasts, circling my nipples, tugging gently, a soft whimper escaping my lips. My other hand drifts lower, over my belly, down to the place that aches the most, the place that’s still pulsing from the way he touched me beneath the water.
I arch my back, pressing my head deeper into the pillow, my thighs falling open wider.
Where is he?
A shadow moves in the hallway, and then—
There he is.
Turner stands in the doorway, shoulders filling the frame, his wet hair hanging over his forehead, droplets sliding down his chest, his swim trunks slung low on his hips.
Shuts the door behind him.
Locks it.
Turner doesn’t say a word.
He just reaches down, hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his swim trunks, and shoves them down his hips in one smooth, practiced motion.
They hit the floor with a wet smack, and my breath catches in my throat as he straightens, completely bare, every inch of him on full, glorious display.
God.
His body is carved from stone, every muscle tight and straining beneath his skin, veins popping along his forearms, down his hips, leading to his cock—thick, hard, and heavy, curving up toward his navel, dark and flushed and already dripping.
I lick my lips, thighs pressing together, aching, throbbing, but then he steps forward, those dark eyes locked on mine, and I can’t move.
“I’m going to taste you,” he murmurs, his voice a dark, sinful rasp. “But not like this.”
“What?” I manage, my voice breathless, shaky, my heart hammering so loud I swear he can hear it. His grin widens, eyes flashing with something dark and dangerous.
“I want you to sit on me. You’re going to come on my tongue,” he growls, his hands kneading my ass, pulling me down until my wet, swollen pussy is hovering just above his mouth. “I want to you to fuck my face.”
Holy shit.
He lays on the bed and grabs at my hips, directing me to climb on top.
“C’mon,” he says, voice low and rough, eyes dark and hungry as he sprawls back against the pillows, his muscles rippling beneath his skin, cock hard and thick and resting against his stomach. “Get your pussy up here.”
My entire body is trembling, every inch of me hot and flushed and aching, but when his hands grip my ass, dragging me down, my brain short-circuits.
I gasp, fingers digging into the headboard as his mouth meets me, tongue sliding through my folds, slow and deliberate, eating me out like he’s savoring every single inch.