Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Nope, it’s official.
When her lips meet mine again, and her breasts slam into my chest, and she grinds down on my dick through my sweats and those pajamas that are apparently made of thin fucking nothingness, it’s not dry. I’m leaking through my boxers and probably through these sweats, too. I can smell how wet she is, and it’s so hot. She smells delicious and womanly, and I want to shove her up onto my face, tear those shorts off, and put my tongue inside her until she’s wetter than a lake.
Umm…
Wow.
I’m sorry.
Or not.
“Are you not obsessed with asses, even right now?” she pants, practically nipping my lips with every word.
I grasp her hips, and she pulls my hands around to the round curve of her bottom. Then, she puts her fingers on mine and digs them in. Not to hurt, but just so I have a firm grip. I think I might be changing my mind about not being a butt guy. Actually, I’m not really a boobs guy, either. I think it’s gross to reduce a person to just a piece of themselves. I’m a whole package type of person, and whenever I’ve done this in the past, it’s been with professional, like-minded women. We don’t mention asses or breasts. Instead, we have very neat and tidy, itch scratching relations, and the best part is the part where both of us go our separate ways, satisfied with the unemotional attachment.
I am not unemotionally attached right now.
Right now, I’m an everything man when it comes to this woman.
I am playing with all sorts of fire here. The most dangerous kind, the kind that can explode in my face, is the kind that can sue me and wreck my reputation as a professional.
Not that Ignacia would do that.
It’s worse than that.
She’s the kind of woman who has the power to do something to me that I can’t undo. She’s already under my skin, grating on every one of my last nerves like a goddamn carrot peeler—wait. I can’t even get my metaphors right because my brain is so scrambled.
“Eat my pussy, Beau. Please,” she pleads.
Look at me, setting a world record for how fast I flip Ignacia onto her back. She’s facing the wrong direction, her head at the foot of the bed, but I don’t care. I’m tearing off her shorts and taking in the gorgeous bareness of her because she’s not wearing panties. She doesn’t wear panties to bed. At least she didn’t tonight. Christ. That literally scrambles my brain.
I slip my hands underneath her. She’s so soft. Her skin is literally the world’s softest skin. It’s a thing. Her scent is a thing. I love that she’s all-natural, her soft blonde curls framing her perfection. One taste of her, and I know I’m fucked. I’m pretty sure she was created precisely for me to lick like this, to part her and feast on her. I’m also almost a hundred percent certain my hair was meant for her hands to tug on, especially when I find her clit and trace it with my tongue. She’s delicious. Perfection incarnate. I have to taste inside her, and she rides my face when I do, clenching around my damn tongue.
I usually don’t do this, not because I think oral sex is gross. I don’t do this because it’s a level of intimacy I’m not okay with. That goes for the giving and the receiving.
But with Ignacia?
Not only should I not be doing this with my tongue or my fingers, or this in fucking general, but I can’t stop. I need it. I need her. I need to be inside her with every part of my damn body. For the love of…of…all things. Just all things. Hmm, I didn’t mean it in that way. I meant…yeah. You know what I meant.
I slip my finger inside her and let her tight walls clench all over it while I circle her clit with gentle passes of my tongue. “More,” she pants.
I lick her clit again. More. Harder.
“More fingers,” she clarifies breathily.
My dick nearly punches through two layers of fabric, and my balls aren’t doing so shit hot on the not-exploding scene. This woman? She’s going to kill me. She thought it would happen by feeding me two cookies. No, wrong. It’s by asking for more of my fingers.
I give her one more, and fuck, she’s so tight now. She rides against them, her hips pumping. She’s given up on my hair, putting her hands on her breasts and circling her nipples through her T-shirt.
It’s official.
I’m dead.
Her breasts are pert but not small. They’re perfectly round, a handful to her own hands. And her nipples are hard through her T-shirt. Hard and obvious and so damn irresistible.
“More,” she whimper-moans. “More fingers.”
“Okay, fuck that. I’m not giving you more fingers.”