Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 111980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
When I raise my face, she’s looking at me with flushed cheeks and glittering eyes. “Nice dick,” she says.
“Use it, sweetheart. Use my dick however you want.” I dig my fingers into the sweet flesh of her ass cheeks as she rises up, up, up, till I’m barely inside her.
She drops back down, and when my dick disappears in her pussy, I nearly lose my mind. “Fuck yes,” I mutter.
And I don’t stop muttering as she rides me, her tits bouncing in her demi-cup bra, her hands gripping my shoulders, her nails digging into my shoulders.
She’s reckless, fearless, her hair spilling down her back as she chases what she wants—her pleasure.
It’s the sexiest thing ever. The way she knows how to get there, how she finds the right angle, the right pace, then leans in closer, her tits smashed to my chest, grinding, grinding deeper, then maneuvering a hand between us so she can rub her clit till she’s panting, gasping, shrieking—
Then she calls my name.
And all the tension I’ve been holding, all the desire I’ve had to keep at bay, all the lust, all the longing is unleashed as I follow her there, coming hard. My vision goes black, and the world beyond these walls stops mattering.
A minute later—maybe more—I open my eyes, and she’s still slumped on me, sated, humming happily. I run a hand down her back, savoring the feel of her smooth, soft skin.
I breathe in her scent, letting it fill my head.
Letting it drown out my thoughts.
For a moment—maybe more—my mind races dangerously ahead. To her bedroom. To the morning. To more times like this. And that just can’t happen. No matter how badly I want it.
I snap my head up, clear my throat, and say, “I should…clean up.”
“Yeah,” she says, sounding sex drunk, a little raspy.
Tension lines my body as I wonder what’s next. If I’ll have the guts to leave, like I should. Or if I’ll cave. Like I want to. Like I really, really want to.
Chloe’s expression shifts—turns serious, businesslike. “And then…you should probably go.”
My chest aches the slightest bit. I should have seen that coming. But I didn’t. “Right, sure,” I say, grabbing my clothes.
“I mean, otherwise I’ll be climbing you again in thirty minutes, and you need your rest,” she says, trying for playful.
But it lands like a compliment to cover kicking me out.
And it hurts more than it should—even though I know she’s right.
I should go.
19
JUGGLE MY DUCKS
CHLOE
Am I the asshole?
All my adult life, I’ve prided myself on not being one. But there’s something about the hard set of Sawyer’s jaw and the precise movement of his fingers as he zips up his slacks that has me wondering.
Was that—asking him to leave—the kind of male behavior that women will often dissect and debate over vanilla lattes and croissants the next morning until we can officially apply the asshole designation to a friend’s hookup?
Sure, I kind of want him to stay, but that would be a mistake.
In my bedroom, I tug on a T-shirt Ripley gave me from her farm. Underneath an illustration of bees buzzing in a bouquet of lavender are the words: Save the Bees. No Really, Save the Fucking Bees.
With the shirt hitting my thighs, I head back out to the living room, my stomach churning with…nerves as Sawyer buttons his shirt now, with a deliberateness too.
“We just have to be professional, right? That’s what we talked about initially. We’re working together,” I say, and maybe I’m overexplaining my comment. But it feels necessary. Partly because of the way he’s standing. Or really, where—on the other side of the couch. It feels like a barrier between us.
He looks up, but his fingers don’t stop moving on the buttons. “Of course,” he says, casual and almost nonchalant. He spins around, hunting for something on the floor. His tie? Oh yes, his tie.
I tossed it to the edge of the living room in a flurry to get him naked. “I’ll get your tie,” I say, hustling to pass my coffee table—then I walk smack into it.
With my knee. And the pain shoots up my thigh, right into the center of my soul and back to my kneecap.
“Holy shit.” I wince, bending over.
“You okay?” Sawyer advances toward me, real concern in his eyes. Almost boyfriend levels of concern.
But that’s a silly thought.
I ward him off, waving my hand. “I’m fine, I’m fine. It’s just the table. Those rubber ducks tripped me up. My bad,” I say, but it feels…well, I’ll just say it.
Like the table’s punishing me for what I said.
Maybe I did say the wrong thing when I told him he should go? I’m not just an asshole, I am a flaming asshole. I wince and turn, despite the pain shooting through my leg.
“I juggle them,” I blurt out as I hand him the silk neckwear.