Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 136048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
“Here,” I say, grabbing his hand and turning it over to find his palm. “Imagine this on the most sensitive part of your body.” His brows furrow, and I press the suction part of the vibrator right against the pad of his pointer finger, letting him get a feel for not only the vibration but the way it sucks, giving so much more than any human experience could possibly offer.
Laith’s brow arches, and after sleeping with him for the better part of three years, I recognize the intrigue in his eyes. “Well, shit.”
I narrow my gaze, suspicion thick in the air. “Tell me you’re not actually thinking about buying one of these and experimenting.”
Laith smirks. “I mean, can you blame me?”
I roll my eyes with exasperation. He has a point, and while I haven’t particularly looked into it, I’m sure there are toys like this specifically designed for the male anatomy. Though when it comes to Laith, he’s a little vanilla, and if he actually had one sitting in a drawer at home, I don’t think he’d actually use it. Even if it was just him and his hand.
“Damn. Turn it off,” Izzy says, blowing out her cheeks. “Just the sound of it is bringing flashbacks of what I did last night. If you’re not careful, I’m going to end up assaulting the armrest of your couch, and I can guarantee that it won’t be pretty.”
A laugh rumbles through my chest, and I hastily turn off the vibrator, knowing that any warning given by my best friend, whether big or small, shouldn’t be taken lightly. If this girl says she’s at risk of dry-humping my couch, then I’d better lay down some blankets.
Four hours later, I lie on the rug in front of the coffee table, laughing hysterically with Izzy as we try our hardest to perfect every gym couple challenge that comes up on our social media feeds. And for what it’s worth, I fucking suck. Kind of. If we weren’t already halfway through our fourth bottle of wine, we probably wouldn’t have face-planted so many times.
I’ve gotta give it to Izzy, though. Pilates is paying off. This bitch is stronger than she looks. Hell, I know Ace and Diesel spend their nights thinking about tossing her around, but when it comes down to it, I reckon Izzy’s got what it takes to throw those big bastards over her petite shoulder, spank their asses, and have her wicked way with them all while they gape in shock.
The thought brings a smile to my face, and as it invokes another round of hysterical laughter, Laith watches us from his position on the couch, not having moved since the moment he first sat down. He’s been in a mood since his team lost the game, muttering about bad calls and interference, and honestly, when he gets like this, he’s no fun. Don’t get me wrong, I love him like a fat raccoon loves a stanky dumpster, but I don’t have the patience for sulky man-boys.
By the time nine p.m. rolls around, a heaviness has entered my chest as I watch both Laith and Izzy file out of my new home and make their way to the Uber waiting at the bottom of the driveway. It’s been a fun night, and if it weren’t for their chaotic schedules, I have no doubt that they both would have crashed here, and our night would have gone into the early hours of tomorrow morning.
Despite it being a Saturday night, Izzy is deep in the zone when it comes to next year’s fall line, and Laith is currently working on one of the biggest cases to rock Blackstone and will be back at the office before seven to go over old case files. It’s a miracle I was able to get them both to come over at the same time. Usually that shit never happens, but when you’ve been jumped, gone certifiably insane, and been stabbed in a parking garage, people tend to give you whatever the hell you want.
Maybe it’s sick to use that shit to my advantage, but what’s the point in having all this trauma if I can’t use it as a manipulation tool against my friends?
Waving goodbye from the doorstep, I watch as the Uber pulls away, and the moment I’m left alone, I find my gaze sweeping up and down the street, searching the shadows for anything that’s not supposed to be there.
Ever since that black rose showed up on the doorstep, I’ve been racking my brain, trying to figure out who the hell is behind all of this. Well, if I’m completely honest, I’ve been trying to figure it out since the moment he approached me in the parking garage. And the list of potential attackers is pathetic.
First on the chopping block, we have Vincent. I don’t feel great about this assumption, but he fits the height and build. His voice was off, though. The stalker’s tone was much deeper, but that’s not exactly something I should be basing this shit off. Voices can be altered. Not to mention, he works at the hospital and has access to every room, office, and surgical space. If I’m correct in assuming it’s Vincent, he could have easily entered Dr. Carzy’s office and found my notes. The only problem is that I don’t feel Vincent is the type of man to hurt a woman. He’s too compassionate, too caring. All he wants is to raise his daughters and get by in life.