Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
He moans and grunts as the rest of his cum lands on my chest while he fucks my fist with a few final thrusts. Even when he came, he didn’t push my head down. He did scratch my scalp, but I’m not complaining. I want my DNA under his nails. I want him to never be able to wash me off.
Clyde is so flushed and still panting when he pulls me up by the arm. “Come here, stud,” he whispers with a smile ghosting over his lips right before they meet mine.
At the same time, he’s already grabbing my cock in his fist with that confidence I love.
Stud. Damn right, I am one, and he knows it.
I slide my hands into his wet hair and push him into the wall while he milks my dick with furious strokes. His mouth is a hot, wet fuck hole for my tongue. My heart beats so fast, my exhilaration reaches its peak. Like when I speed on the road, but with Clyde, I don’t slow down before the bend. I just fly right off the cliff.
Chapter 20
Road
Nothing’s changed. Getting dicked doesn’t make you a different person, doesn’t leave scars nor alter the chemistry in one’s body. But when I dry myself with a clean towel while Clyde does the same on the other side of the bathroom, I feel a switch has been flipped, and there will be no going back. In a good way, as if nothing was ever wrong with me to begin with.
I’m pumped out and lean against the wall, watching him squeeze water out of that long, beautiful hair.
“I’ll sleep like a baby.”
“I never sleep with anyone, so I’ll probably kick you all the time,” he says casually and with a smile. He’s always less guarded after I pump him out of cum.
It’s so different to see him here, in his house, naked, oiling his hair. Like we live here. Like it’s no longer a summer fling by the lake after which we both go back to our lives. I don’t know what that means, but I’ll just enjoy the domesticity for now.
“Kinky,” I tell him and grab his wrist to pull him closer. “Tell me more. Any secret kicking techniques I should know about?”
“I’d watch your balls if I were you.”
He slips his hand out of my grasp and rubs it over my head, forehead to nape. Only when I’m hit with the scent do I realize that he’s marked me with his oil. When I go home, and someone asks me about it, what will I say?
Clyde walks out of the bathroom, not even bothering with a towel.
“Okay, in that case, I demand a pillow wall. Those jewels are the most precious thing my family gave me.”
I follow him down the corridor to his bedroom. I feel weird about his family members watching me from photos, so I focus on the wet strands of hair that reach the dimples in his ass.
When Clyde laughs, it always gives me an ego boost. It’s as if he’s saying, you’re so funny, Road. Or now, maybe even, you’re so funny, babe.
“Like fuck. There will be no damn pillow wall. Wanna stay here, gotta take the risk.”
I whistle and push open the door, entering the large room with three dark gray walls and one of raw brick. “Then maybe I should just stay awake and watch you sleep?”
“Now that’s just creepy.” Clyde shakes his head, turning on the bedside lamp, which illuminates the whole room with a soft glow.
I was surprised when I first sneaked in here. While I know the Butchers make a lot more cash than we do, I didn’t expect the rooms to be this clean. Especially since he lives here alone. He even made the bed before he went wherever he was today and no fewer than six black and brown pillows sit in front of the headboard as if we’re in a Hallmark movie.
There’s even a fireplace in the brick wall, which must feel amazing in the winter, and a large glass door leads to a balcony overlooking the backyard. The coffee cup and book left on the table suggest Clyde doesn’t just fuck around on his phone in the morning like me.
“Sooo… do you have a cleaner, or something?” I ask and roll onto the bedspread with a wide smile.
He looks around with a thoughtful expression. “I just like to keep things tidy. I do have someone come once a month or after a party, but I don’t really like people in my space. Most of the time,” he adds, raising his eyebrows at me, as I’m most definitely “people in his space”.
I stretch, glancing at the handlebars of some old motorcycle mounted high above the headboard. “This home… it’s fancy,” comes out of my mouth before I can restrain myself. Because what does this suggest? That mine’s a hovel? Goddamn it.