Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 108190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
“Stan is having drinks at the Simpsons’. He’ll be back in about forty minutes.” Another giggle escapes her lips. I hope Mr. Simpson and his bowtie choke on their stupid girly cocktails.
“That’s nine orgasms.” My voice is flat and cool. “By the fourth, you’ll be begging for me to stop. Now show me those beautiful tits I’ve been dreaming about.”
I pat the plush mattress. She gingerly steps forward, but stops, her brows creasing. Astonishingly, her forehead doesn’t wrinkle an inch. Jesus fuck. She’s got enough Botox up there to sculpt an actual size baby.
“Where have you been this week, Nate? I’ve been trying to call.”
“I wanted to fight this.” I get up from the bed, walking toward her, hoping my movements don’t give away my impatience. I don’t have time for this crap. I lift my hand and brush a strand of hair behind her ear. The cheesiest thing a man can possibly do. I have no idea why people do it. Is there anything sexier than watching Prescott’s dirty blonde locks getting all messy and tangled, knowing a part of the reason it’s a hot mess is because I fucked her senseless?
“I was reaching my fucking limit, Mrs. H. How long can a straight guy work for you, deal with your advances, without breaking? I wanted you so bad, keeping away from you was the only thing I could do to fight this. Until I realized,” I say and take another step toward her, my eyes turning to slits as my palm cups one of her cheeks. She leans into it. Such a fucking goner. Like taking candy from a baby. “I realized that I’m done fighting. I want this just as much as you do. Now tell me, Mrs. H, How. Hard. Do. You. Want. To. Be. Fucked?”
Her face is beetroot-red and she falls to her knees, her thumbs hooking each side of my boxers. An uncomfortable shiver breaks down my spine. Hell no. This man belongs to one chick, one who’s sitting in a stupid-ass car right now, waiting for him to come back with shitload of cash.
“Baby.” I fist her hair and jerk her face away from my junk. My dick is so soft and uninterested. How can she not notice? “We’ve waited so long. I want the whole fucking deal. Get me the whip and the handcuffs. I’ll show you a good time.”
With skepticism playing on her face, she rises to her feet slowly, her eyes searching mine. All she sees is a devious grin, and my heart skips as I pray she doesn’t see the Guy Fawkes mask I threw under my clothes. After long, agonizing seconds, she spins toward the closet and the painting. I follow her footsteps, knowing how hypersensitive she is to my movements.
“Why are you following me?” Her tone is quivering with excitement. Her suspicion grows beyond her want for me. This needs to be rectified. I keep a good distance between me and the safe, so I can’t pounce on her when she opens it.
“I want to cuff you to the old man’s tie rack and fuck you against his suits while you scream my name. Problem?”
She smiles over her shoulder. “You’re sick, you know that?”
“You’re about to find out just how much, sweetheart.”
She punches in the code to the safe, and my eyes follow her fingers religiously. 4.5.2.9.
4.5.2.9.
4.5.2.9.
4.5.2.9.
I chant the combination in my head like a fucking choir boy, slapping it with a catchy jingle, and watch as she produces the handcuffs from the safe and gives them to me.
“Hands up, against the rack.” I push her to the left side of the closet and she does as she’s told. Her wrists to the rack, I handcuff her tightly enough so she can barely dangle from side to side, her body long and erect, her feet barely touching the floor. I scowl, leaving her personal space at once and shaking my head.
She’s helpless, caged and locked onto the tie rack. I turn around and walk back to the safe.
“Jesus Christ, Nate! What the hell?” Her voice is low but panicked.
“Sorry.” I knock half her closet down and throw shit on the floor, looking for something I can use to stuff all the dough into. “I never planned on taking a penny I didn’t earn from you. It wasn’t my intention. Alas, shit happens. And when it does. . .” I punch in the numbers with steady fingers: 4.5.2.9. The door to the silver safe slides open, and all the cash smiles back at me, like it’s happy to see me too. I walk back to the master bedroom, get dressed and return to collect the cash, shoving it in one of her big purses, my boxers and my pockets, anywhere I can fit one hundred bills. “Let’s just say, I appreciate the help.”