Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 152064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 760(@200wpm)___ 608(@250wpm)___ 507(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 760(@200wpm)___ 608(@250wpm)___ 507(@300wpm)
His muscles ripple and flex as he undulates on the floor at my feet. It’s pretty damn obscene, and I can easily envision myself naked under him as he rolls his hips. My mouth waters and then goes dry as he runs his hands up the back of my calves, moving around to push my knees wide. His hot gaze stays fixed on mine, tongue dragging across his lips as his palms slide up the inside of my thighs.
He rises, nose skimming the front of my shirt, lips brushing along my throat, hovering just above mine as he growls the refrain. Time suspends. My body feels like it’s on fire, there’s a pulse between my thighs, and he’s not even touching me. What will it be like when he breaks? I’ll be feral for him. I already am.
He spins around, back to my front as he glides down, head resting in my lap for a moment. He grins up at me, and then he’s on the move again. He shakes his booty and tosses a saucy wink over his shoulder that makes me laugh.
He pirouettes around me, bending to tuck his fingers behind my knees and press my legs together. Flip straddles my thighs and holds on to the back of the chair, undulating suggestively as the song ends. He kisses the end of my nose and hops off my lap. “How was that?”
“So much thrusting and so many hip rolls!” I say breathlessly, like it was me doing the work, not him.
He smirks. “Haven’t you seen hockey warm-ups?”
I have an unreasonable number of video files of Flip humping the ice. Which I’ve often used as fantasy fodder. “That was a lot more than hockey warm-up inner-thigh stretches.”
“Denise, the women’s coach, suggested I take some classes for flow and floor work, but I could only go once because I accidentally fucked the instructor,” Flip explains.
I give him a look. “How do you accidentally fuck the instructor, Flip?”
“Well, you know…” He runs a hand through his hair. “You’re twenty-five, and you’re horny, and I don’t actually need to tell you more about this.”
“I’ve been horny plenty, and I’ve never fucked one of my instructors,” I argue.
“I’m glad I don’t have to knock anyone’s teeth out.” He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me against him.
A hot thrill shoots down my spine at his dark tone. I loop my arms around his neck, loving that I’m pressed up against his warm, bare skin. “Why is it okay for you to fuck your instructor, but the idea of me fucking one of mine warrants physical violence?”
He gazes down at me, eyes glittering. “I didn’t say it was okay that I fucked my instructor, just that it happened. And I couldn’t go back to the studio after that.” His nostrils flare. “Let’s talk about anything other than fucking.”
I press myself against him. “You’re the one who brought up fucking, not me.”
“Stop using the word fucking.”
“But I like the word fucking.”
“Kitten.” There’s warning in his tone and his molten gaze.
I’m sure my smile is absolutely devilish. I make a fuh sound.
He narrows his eyes. “What do you think happens to bad little kittens?”
“Naughty things, I hope.”
He exhales roughly, jaw flexing along with the fingers gripping my side.
I’m pushing all his buttons. I want him, I want this, but I don’t want him to break for the wrong reasons, so I kiss his chin and step back. “Should we check out that coffee shop?”
“We should.”
I start to move away but his fingers lap my wrist. I turn back to him, and he gently cups my chin in his palm, gazing down at me with heated longing. “Thank you for dancing for me.”
“Thank you for renting me a studio.”
He slants his mouth over mine, tongue brushing mine. It’s sweet and languid and it makes my knees weak, but it’s over too soon. He pulls back, then kisses the side of my neck. “I need to get you out of here now.”
“I know.” My heart is hammering. My vagina is permanently clenched, and I will definitely need some relief when I get home, but it’s so, so worth it to have him look at me like he wants to devour me.
He helps me into my coat, and I watch as he pulls his shirt and hoodie back over his head. We end up driving to another café because the one in the strip mall is full of students, a couple of whom are wearing Terror shirts.
It isn’t until we’re seated at the too-small table, one of his knees between mine because there’s no space for his long legs, and he’s playing with my fingers that he says, “I’m sorry.”
I look up at him. “For what?”
“For winding you up and leaving you hanging.” His eyes are full of apology.