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)
Breathless.
Her pussy needs saving and I’m here to help.
I slide in the barest inch, teasing her.
Tease some more…
Every part of me screaming to move faster.
But I don’t.
I slide in another inch. Her mouth drops open, eyes roll back, her entire body arching beneath mine like I’ve just short-circuited her soul.
Still—no sound.
Good girl…
I sink in deeper.
Her nails bite into my skin. Her legs wrap tight around my waist. And I swear I can feel her pulse through every part of her.
This isn’t a game anymore; it’s a test of willpower.
And we’re both seconds from breaking.
I pull out.
Push back inside.
Watch as Poppy bites her lip at the same time she pulls me by the hips, urging me forward—a silent plead not to move away again.
I press a finger to my lips.
Shhh…
Then push deeper, slower this time, just to feel the way her back arches and her mouth opens on a gasp that doesn’t quite escape.
She’s a whisper away from losing.
So am I.
It’s not about noise anymore. It’s about control. Trust. The maddening thrill of knowing we could fall apart at any second, and neither of us wants to stop.
She clutches my back, nails digging in as she holds me close, grounding herself against the force of everything we’re not saying.
I kiss her jaw. Her cheek. Her temple.
Silent.
Focused.
Completely wrecked by her.
And even if I don’t say it out loud, I feel it in every pulse of my body:
She’s it.
poppy
. . .
Do not break first…
Do not break first…
Even as I say the words to myself, desperate not to make a single sound, the pulsing in my lower half makes it increasingly impossible to remain quiet.
His dick is too, too good…
So hard.
So perfect.
Turner Hutton is everything I did not think was possible.
Kind.
Funny.
Wonderful.
I love spending time with him, and I love fucking him.
And he’s making me miserable.
He’s making me…
He’s…
He pumps his hips into me, and I gaze down our bodies to his thighs; thick and sexy. Watch as his firm ass grinds.
I bite my lip harder; we’re not supposed to be making sounds. That is the rule.
So let’s talk about the real problem ‘cause I think I’ve broken a much bigger one: this man—this unbelievably hot, golden-hearted disaster of a man—is making me feel things I’ve spent years keeping locked in a mental box labeled DO NOT OPEN UNLESS YOU WANT TO GET HURT.
I’m supposed to be the one in control. Me. The one keeping things light. Fun. Physical.
Unfortunately, Turner Hutton kisses like he damn well means it. Touches me as if memorizing my skin. Holds me like I’m not just the girl he shares a house with—but something he’s afraid to lose.
It has my stomach in knots and my pussy clenching around him.
The headboard bangs against the wall once, my head tipping back, the moan somewhere deep in my body begging to free itself.
He fucks me.
Reaches back across the covers, his hand fumbling for something. It’s pink.
It whirrs to life again.
When he reaches behind our bodies, I feel it buzzing near my ass…his balls…lifts my leg, shifts his hips, and slips the toy between us—strategic, maddening, and suddenly I’m seeing stars behind my eyes.
The headboard hits the wall again.
Oh my god…
Oh my god…
turner
. . .
“What the hell is actually going on with your and your roommate?” My sister wants to know and honestly, I do too.
“Which roommate?” I play dumb, doing my best to avoid her hawkish gaze. She may be younger than I am, but she’s definitely smarter and she’s definitely way more observant.
Georgie rolls her eyes. “Don’t act dumb with me—Poppy. Are the two of you fucking, or what?”
I damn near spit out my protein shake.
“What?” I cough. “No! Jesus, Georgia.”
She slaps the table triumphantly. “Aha! That’s the second Jesus. You're definitely guilty.”
I groan. “It wasn’t like that.”
“But it was something.”
I hesitate a beat too long.
“OH MY GOD.” She gasps dramatically, slapping a hand over her mouth like she’s just unearthed a government conspiracy. “I don’t freaking believe this!”
“We’re adults,” I mutter feebly. “And we were quiet.”
“You were not!” she says. “There were vibrations. At one point, I thought you were running a power tool in there. Or trying to summon a demon. Do you like her?”
I can’t make direct eye contact. “I’m going to die.”
“You’re going to answer the question.”
“I…we…”
“So that’s a yes. You’re screwing your roommate.” She huffs. “Dammit.” Pause. “Is it serious?”
“Define ‘serious’.”
I try to sound casual, I swear I do. Instead, I sound like a guy who knows exactly how many times his roommate made him forget his own name last night.
Georgia sets her coffee down. “Are you in love with her, or are you enjoying the fringe benefits of living with a hot girl who owns a vibrator?”
I choke. Again. For the third time this morning.
“That is not an appropriate question to ask your older brother,” I cough.
“Okay old man.” She rolls her eyes. “So. Which is it?”