Series: Cobalt Empire Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 220
Estimated words: 215301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 861(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 861(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
“Just sit there,” I instruct, and I curl my fingers around his erection again. Then I arch my hips into Tom, and he immediately doubles over from the intensity. The angle causes me to slip out.
Tom lets out an agonized noise, especially when I let go of his cock.
“Put me back inside you,” I demand.
He extends his hand behind him again, gripping me tightly. I help by spreading one of his cheeks for him. When I’m halfway in, he gives me a fiery yet pleading look. “Just fuck me, dude.”
I consider it for a second. “Say please.”
His jaw tightens, and he lets out a deep breath through his nose. He moves a little lower, taking more of me.
“Won’t say please, got it.” My lips twitch into a smile.
His hand is flat on my stomach, and he flips me off with it.
My laugh morphs into a rough moan when he reaches the hilt of my cock. “Fuck. Jesus.” I return my hand to his hardened shaft, gently stroking him into a more forceful, relentless rhythm. I buck my hips into him with the same pace.
His lips break apart in a hitched breath, his face flooding with arousal, and our eyes catch more than once with tunneling depth. I hold his jaw so he doesn’t turn away from me. Seeing Tom surrender to these feelings while I make love to him has become my obsession.
“Holy fuck, holy fuck,” he pants. I flex into him again and again, and Tom clutches my arms to keep steady.
“That’s it,” I tell him.
He lets out heavy pants. “Phoenix.”
“You’re doing good.” Pleasure rips through my body as I thrust up into him. Stroke him. Descend into the overwhelmed look in his blue eyes. This position after the edging has destroyed me, and I honestly want this to last longer.
Wrapping my arm around his back, I stay inside Tom and flip him. His shoulders meet the bed, and his smile flickers in—like I just took him on a thrill ride—then out as I pound into him.
I whisper against his ear, “You better like this fucking rhythm, nepo baby, because I’m not stopping.”
He shudders under me into a groan. “Phoenix, fuck.” His fingers dig into my shoulder, and I love his strong grip on my body. I love how Tom clings on. I want him fully fucking attached to me, and I grind deeper into him, the sensation of fucking him is a need I’m chasing after, not even a want anymore.
And then the doorbell rings.
I pause.
“What the…?” Tom inhales shallow gulps of air. “Dude. You just said—”
“Yeah, I know,” I snap, also short of breath. I kiss his reddened lips, really wanting to keep moving, but I ask, “You have a doorbell?”
“No one uses it.”
We both wait for one of his brothers to answer the door.
It rings again.
And again.
And again.
I pull out the same time he pushes at my chest.
“What the fuck,” Tom crawls off me. I’m grabbing my boxer-briefs on the ground.
“You can stay,” he tells me, fighting with a pair of sweats. His erection is comically noticeable. We were both so close to coming. I’m still hard too, but I’ll deal with that in a minute. I pull him back to the bed by his waistband and roll it down.
“Let me suck you off,” I tell him. “Doorbell asshole can wait a second.”
“What if it’s an emergency? Joana is down the hall. Luna lives three floors below. Could be one of them.”
“Give me twenty seconds, man.” My mouth is on his cock.
It only takes me ten.
I’m wiping my lips with the back of my hand, while Tom is racing out the door. I rub myself quickly—and it doesn’t take me long to find a release. I use the towel from Tom’s dresser, then toss it into his hamper. By the time, I’m dressed and have cleaned myself up in the bathroom, I feel like I’ve taken way too much time. Do not put me on an EMS team.
“Are you sure she’s not living here?” The feminine voice catches me off-guard, and I pick up my pace down the hall.
As soon as I emerge in the living room, Tom sends me a hard, apprehensive look while he trails after this strange woman, probably in her late thirties or early forties. She wears a vintage-looking, fur-collared ’70s jean jacket that reaches her knees. It’s a warm May.
And she’s charting course toward the floor-length windows like she’s being summoned by the view.
If I didn’t have the same reaction my first time here, I’d think she was on drugs. “Who the hell are you?” I abandon my manners in my need to protect Tom.
She whirls around, and I’m immediately taken aback. Not from her light-brown hair, parted in the center. It’s her face—round, big blue eyes, and prominent ears sticking out from the wind-knotted strands—that reminds me of Harriet Fisher.