Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
His chest heaves, rising and falling with every seedy inhale and exhale.
"I'm fucking exhausted," he says, leaning in one more time and pressing a soft kiss to my lips.
I stand there, swallowing and wondering just how hard I was breathing while we were messing around, because my mouth feels so dry.
"Me too," I say, letting my hand fall away from his softening cock.
His eyes drop for the briefest of seconds before he releases me as well, and the step he takes back, the distance he puts between us, feels like an uncrossable chasm, wider than any that has ever existed between us.
Is it regret in his eyes? Embarrassment? Shame?
I can't exactly decipher what the man is feeling, but I know from experience it isn't gratitude and elation.
If anything, the blankness in his eyes is worse than the usual anger and hatred he showed in the past. At least that was an emotion. Not feeling anything or not being affected enough to respond at all somehow cuts a little deeper than he's ever cut me before.
I shake my head, feeling like a fool despite being a very active participant in what just happened.
"Hey," he says, lifting his hand to my face, but stopping it a few inches shy. "Shit."
A chuckle fills the room, and I follow his eyes, grinning when I see my cum coating his fingers.
The laughter dies away quickly.
Rather than stepping around me, he keeps his hand away from my face and presses another swift kiss to my lips.
"Gonna get cleaned up," he says.
"You first," I tell him, as I take a step to the side.
He walks past me, opening the door with his clean hand and heading to the bathroom.
I stand in the hall, not knowing what to do. I have no idea what his expectations are, but when I hear the lock on the bathroom door engage, I know that whatever we just shared is over.
Instead of sticking around to find out and putting us in an even more awkward situation, I quickly wash my hands in the empty kitchen sink and go back to my room.
Chapter 22
Zeus
For all of the anxiety and stress I felt last night, I don't feel an ounce of it tonight.
There was just something about the way Zayne made me come a handful of hours ago that just set everything that was making me feel off-kilter straight.
I huff a laugh at the word.
Straight.
Fuck... clearly not.
"Let us all in on the joke?"
I look at Scott, the guy we're working with tonight. I'm in the back seat once again, behind Zayne, who is in the front passenger seat.
Scott doesn't bother to look back at me, and I'm grateful I'm not positioned in the back like I was last night, where Bobby could meet my eyes.
It's not that I feel any shame about what happened earlier, but I don't want to imagine this guy reading me and figuring anything out either. How insane is it that there's still a hint of shame attached to what I've done, even when I know there shouldn't be? I guess trauma and upbringing will always be a whisper in my head, even though I try to quiet the voices telling me that there's something wrong with me for wanting the things I do.
I know there's no deviance in what has happened, but my brain can't seem to let go of the idea completely.
"Come on," Scott urges, his silence waiting for me to reply, the longest he's gone without talking.
If I thought Bobby talked a lot, he has nothing on this guy.
Before I can formulate a lie or tell the guy to shut the fuck up, something that would be well within character of the man I'm portraying, he points out the windshield toward a cabin tucked away in the distance. Only the porch light is visible from the winding road we're on. If we were driving any faster, we would've missed it.
"We hit that house two weeks ago," he confesses. "Scored three shotguns and a fuck load of ammo."
"Nice," Zayne, or should I say Curtis, responds. "Not worried about hitting another place so close so soon after?"
"Scared?" Scott asks, looking over at him.
"Don't like the fucking heat," I mutter. "Got better things to do than go to jail tonight."
And we would. Go to jail, that is. Unless Casper is sitting on the police scanner or has some way to be notified if our aliases come through the system, we'd spend the night in jail at a minimum. This job is specifically on a need-to-know basis, and since it's suspected that The League has cops on its payroll, only Cerberus and select federal agencies have knowledge of what we're doing. Even still, the Feds don't know all the details. If they did, they might shut us down. Sometimes it's better to ask for forgiveness than for permission.