Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 131387 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131387 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Nine o’clock that morning, I was in the workshop, doing the finishing on the shelves, when Hutch called.
“You get a note?” he asked.
“Nope,” I answered.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing,” I confirmed.
“Good. See you in a few hours.”
“You want me to have lunch ready for you?”
“I’ll have eaten. But since I’m comin’ back later so we can enjoy our benefits, you could make dinner.”
“One baked chicken breast and a pile of broccoli boiled to mush coming right up,” I quipped.
“Smartass,” he muttered, but I could hear the humor in his tone. “Later, babe.”
“Later, Hutch.”
We hung up.
Incidentally, I made us my garlic roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and broccoli not boiled to mush but boiled and served still with some bite and yummy.
Hutch waved away the gravy.
And only I had a dinner roll.
Later that evening, Hutch had his fingers laced in mine, my hand held over my head in the pillow, the fingers of his other hand clamped on the back of my neck, his mouth devouring mine, while my legs clutched his hips, and he fucked me.
I’d never known a man who didn’t allow a woman to take the top so he could get all the goodness without doing any of the work, but by damn, Hutch Hutchison was not a surrender-the-dominant-position kind of guy.
Not remotely.
He also wasn’t a talker.
Not dirty talk, not encouragement, not verbal indication he liked something or wanted something.
There were grunts and growls and groans that mingled with my whimpers, pants, gasps and moans, wet noises, flesh meeting flesh.
But other than that, it was connection, touch, taste, smell and feel.
Lots and lots of feel.
I liked it. It was intense. Powerful. There were no distractions. Nothing else to concentrate on other than him and me, wringing as much pleasure out of each other as we could, and eventual climax.
Oh, and he could hit the G-spot magnificently.
This round was going to be a clit climax, I knew when he took his hand from the back of my neck and slid it between us.
He was so good with his cock, his mouth, he smelled amazing, the power of his body completely unbridled, the taste of his tongue filling my mouth, it didn’t take but a few strong circles of his thumb on my clit with his thick cock thrusting inside for me to suck his tongue deep as I gasped my orgasm.
It didn’t take a lot longer for me to swallow the groan of his.
He collapsed on me briefly before he rolled us so I was on top.
I rested my head on his shoulder.
His hands roamed my back.
We caught our breath.
His fingers hit a scar and stopped.
I froze.
“Felt them our first time, baby,” he said softly.
Oh God.
Shit.
After watching him play and spending so much time with him, particularly the time at the Art Center opening, once I had my friends-with-benefits idea, I was powerless to do anything but propose it to him.
Even if I’d been nervous about suggesting it—because I hadn’t lied, if he’d declined, I’d have allowed that play—still, that kind of thing would always be mortifying.
And even if it was a spur of the moment thing, I still thought it was a great idea.
Because he was interesting. Confident. He knew himself. He was comfortable in his skin. I liked being around him, even when we were bickering. I liked what I knew about him, so much, I wanted to get to know him better. And I knew he was great in bed.
So, using my intuition, I threw the idea out there, and as crazy as it sounded, I was sure it was a good idea.
But it was way too soon for that getting-to-know-you info.
I lifted my head and pushed up so I could look down at him.
“It’s a long story,” I replied. “And not a post-great-sex story.”
“Yours to give when and if you wanna give it,” he said, and I relaxed. “One thing I need. You okay?”
I gave him a small smile. “Yeah. Three years of therapy with a counselor who was pretty awesome and who I still exchange Christmas cards with got me to a good place.”
“All right,” he said, his eyes moving over my face.
I cupped his jaw. “I’m fine, Hutch.”
“I believe you, May.”
I hadn’t had my name for long.
But I loved it.
After being forced to be three different girls in the span of seventeen years—the age I finally began my journey to figure out who the hell I actually was—when the thing with my ex went down, and the aftermath, I was so used to shedding an old skin (or being forced to), that was where my mind took me.
But this time, I got to choose.
My place.
My job.
My name.
So I picked what I wanted.
Still, Hutch calling me May was the prettiest thing I’d ever heard, even prettier than his songs.
“I need to get rid of this condom,” he said.
I rolled off him and watched his fine ass as he sauntered to my bathroom.