Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
The bathroom fills with a slow, humid breath as I twist the shower handle and let the water run. Steam billows, curling around the double vanity and fogging the big gilt-framed mirror. I undo my hair and shed my t-shirt, then stand in front of the mirror, letting the heat and sandalwood from the oil rise off my skin.
I look at myself: hair loose and damp at the edges, a red ghost of a fingerprint on my cheek where I rubbed too hard. My mouth is swollen, lips shiny from the gloss and from Kent, and my nipples—oh god—my nipples are pushing out so hard they almost hurt. I tug at the waist of my jeans, working the button with shaking hands, then peel them down, along with my underwear, the cotton dark and sticky at the crotch.
I’m bare now, the glass and marble turning me into pure ivory, every detail thrown back at me a thousandfold. I run a hand up my side, over the soft pad of my belly, then cup one large breast, thumb circling the nipple. Oooh, that feels good! But I know I’m stalling. I know what I want. I just want to draw it out a little longer, see how it feels to make the world wait for me.
I glance at the open door, the slice of shadow beyond, and for a second I think I see a movement—a shift, a shimmer, the flick of a head turning away. My whole body prickles. Oh my god, could it be …? But instead of being alarmed, I feel aroused. Hell, I feel naughty. With a soft smile, I turn, angle myself away from the door, and bend at the waist, bracing one hand on the vanity. With the other, I reach back and spread myself open, just for a heartbeat. The air is warm now, the steam wafting over my deep pink insides. My pussy lips are swollen and glossy, the inner ones peeking out, glistening. I want someone to see. I want Kent to see.
I hold the pose, counting to three, letting my pussy show itself as my asshole clenches, and then straighten and let out a little giggle. There’s a low groan from out there. I can feel it in my bones, and the deep, masculine tone emboldens me. With a flip of my hair over my shoulder, I open the stall door and step into the shower. The water is almost too hot, needling my skin, but I don’t turn it down. I lean my forehead against the tile, letting the steam close in, then close my eyes and re-live the last hour, frame by frame.
I see myself walking into Kent’s office, hands sweating, heart pounding. I see the way his eyes went straight to my breasts, then to my bare feet, then back to my eyes. I see the way he sat, legs spread, sweatpants tented and obvious, not even pretending to hide how hard he was. I see myself kneeling at the end of the table, pouring the oil into my hand, feeling it run down my wrist. I see the first time I touched him, how his cock jerked in my hand, how he made that sound—raw, guttural, like he couldn’t help himself. I see the look on his face when he realized I loved touching him, and hope to never stop.
I press my palm to my own mound, fingers sliding between the lips, already slippery with need. I don’t even try to be gentle. I rub hard, fast, the way I imagine Kent would, breath coming in gasps as I stroke my clit. I think of his hands on me, the way he’d push my knees apart and hold me open, the way he’d say my name in that deep, slow voice.
“Fuck baby,” he’d rasp, blue eyes like live wire. “You’re my dirty little slut. Come for me, sweetheart.”
“Oh Daddy, yes,” I whisper, not caring if anyone hears. “Yes, yes, yes!”
Steam snakes down the inside of the glass, distorting everything outside the shower into an impressionist blur. My body is a watercolor—ivory and pink, all edges melting. I stop stroking my pussy for a moment and turn into the spray, lean my back into the cool slab of marble, and begin the fun again.
The water is hot, almost scalding, but the stone behind me steals the warmth from my skin. I arch away, then press into it again, shivering at the contrast. My hands start at my neck, skimming down over collarbones, then cupping my big breasts, squeezing hard enough to leave prints. My nipples are so stiff they ache under my thumbs. I rub them in slow, hard circles, then pinch until I gasp.
“Oooh!” I pant. “That feels so good, Daddy!”
I can almost hear the rumble of his reply in my ear, but I know it’s just my imagination. I let my hands drift lower, over the curve of my belly, tracing the path that Kent’s eyes always follow when he thinks I’m not looking. The memory of his hands, his voice, the way he groaned when I worked him tonight—it all crashes back at once, a sharp, sweet pressure in my chest and a deeper one below. I slip my fingers between my thighs, find myself so wet—pathetically, shamelessly wet, even with the water streaming everywhere.