Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
In the bathroom, I reapply my makeup, paying extra attention to the scar on my cheek. That’s one way Wyatt, if it was him, might recognize me. Although it was bandaged then. I apply thicker eyeliner than usual, dab matte crimson lipstick on my lips and, since all I have are a few pins, arrange my hair in a sort of messy up-do which, coupled with the collar and the neckline of the dress, isn’t bad actually. Not elegant, not Society, but not horrible.
The bedroom door opens. I brush a lock of hair that’s too short to be pinned behind my ear and walk into the bedroom, weirdly nervous about him seeing me like this.
Zeke is looking at his phone, so I have a moment where I get to take him in unobserved. He’s dressed in a tuxedo. He is elegant. He was born elegant. Black on black, he looks exactly like the anti-hero he is. Dangerous. Dark. And so fucking sexy I’d like to climb him.
Fuck.
I shake my head.
What the hell is wrong with you, Blue?
Zeke looks up. Our eyes meet and, for a moment, we stand just like that, staring at each other. He appears taken aback and I’m first to look away, feeling the heat of a flush creeping up my neck to my face.
He recovers himself more quickly. I forget how much more experienced he is than me. “Dress looks good on you, Blue,” he says, approaching.
I don’t have shoes on yet, so I feel shorter than usual and have to crane my neck back to look at him.
“You too,” I say, not quite meeting his gaze.
He raises his eyebrows.
“I mean the tux. It looks good.” God. I’m an idiot.
His eyes narrow, one corner of his mouth curving upward. I take in the sharp edge of his jaw, the neatly kept five o’clock shadow. I breathe in aftershave as he touches the collar at my neck, then dips his hand into his pocket and produces a small lock of brightly sparkling fine crystals—at least I think they’re crystal because it can’t be diamonds, surely. He attaches it to my collar.
“And,” he starts, and from that same pocket he pulls out two dangly earrings, also crystal I guess. “The earrings are on loan,” he says. “Don’t lose them.”
I take them from him, put them on, and try to act casual as I cross the room to pick up the shoes. I slip the strappy things on my feet. They’re uncomfortable but so pretty. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the dresser once more and, for a moment, I just take in the reflection of myself, of us when he comes to stand beside me.
We look like a couple. A good-looking couple, actually. Like we fit.
Zeke’s eyes meet mine in the mirror. My gaze falters. He’s too experienced, too confident. A man who knows what he wants.
I clear my throat, step away. “Do people in your world often spend a month’s salary on a dress they’ll wear once?” I ask, disrupting whatever was happening.
“That’s not a month’s salary for people in my world,” he says with a wink. “One thing.” He pulls me close by my hips, and, eyes locked on mine, slips his hands under the dress.
“What are you doing?” I ask, capturing his forearm.
“Panty lines,” he says, dragging my panties down and off.
“I’m not going without—”
He backs me against the table, lifts me to deposit me on top of it. “You’re nervous.”
I nod.
“Relax,” he says and, keeping his hands on my pelvic bones, crouches down between my legs, pushing the dress up, my legs wide. He sets his hands on either side of my sex and, with his thumbs, draws me open. He looks up at me with a dark, hungry look in his eyes.
With that he closes his mouth over my pussy, and I gasp. My hands come to his head, weaving into his hair as he licks the length of my pussy. I close my eyes and moan when he circles my clit with his tongue, then nibbles it with his teeth.
“Oh God. That’s.” He closes his lips over the nub then and sucks and oh my God. His mouth is so warm, his tongue so wet and him sucking on my clit like he is takes me over the edge in seconds. I close my thighs, hugging his head to me and press myself into his face, moaning as I come, biting my lip so hard I taste my own blood.
When it’s over, and my knees are wobbly, he straightens, holding me up as I stand. He looks down at me with a satisfied grin on his face.
“What was that?”
“Me helping you relax.”
I nod, in some stupid trance as I shudder, coming down off my high.
“You taste good,” he tells me, helping to steady me once I stand. “Sweet.”