Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82439 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82439 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
I want his hands on my body. I want his hand wrapped around my throat. I want his tongue in my mouth, and more than anything I want him calling me filthy names, but I can’t ask for any of that.
Not now that we’re alone.
Chapter 21
Benedict
I head home after a long night at the club, and before I even make it fully through my front door, I unzip my pants, freeing my cock.
I slam the door shut, leaning back against the hardwood, stroking my cock in my hand. “Fuck,” I grunt out.
The image of Eva’s body, the feel of her pussy on my fingers, the way her whole body shook when her orgasm hit has me fisting my cock with speed. The way she looked tonight has me harder than iron. I keep stroking my dick, my breathing picking up. I picture her on her knees, taking my hard dick deep down her throat. Her blue eyes staring up at me.
“Take it all,” I say out into the darkness. “Take my fucking cock,” I say, wishing she were here. “You know you want it.” And she does want it. I can tell.
She has to fucking want it. Does she get wet every time she sees me? I know I’m always hard in her presence.
Fuck.
I’m so close to coming. So close to coming to visions of Eva on her knees, her long blonde hair tumbling around her perfect fucking tits. I bet they’re exquisite. I try to imagine them, wishing I could catch one glimpse of them.
I keep jerking off, my dick ready to explode. Would she suck me? Would she swallow me whole? I bet she would. I bet she’d do whatever it takes to get me off. To make me come. I picture coming on her face. I picture coming on her tits. On her ass. On her fucking pussy. I picture it all with her.
“Fuck,” I roar out, my release slamming into me like a ton of bricks. “Fuck, Eva.” I need this woman badly.
I don’t even care anymore.
I don’t care if she thinks I’m a priest. I’m fucking not.
I’m not a man of the cloth, and next time I see her I’m going to show her how wicked I can be. How I can own her body.
I clean up my mess, trying my best to concentrate on anything else, but how can I?
My phone rings in my pocket, and I check the caller id.
Vin.
“What?” I say into the phone, still a bit out of breath.
“Whoa, what’s up with you?”
I breathe in deep, letting it out slowly before I begin, “I’m just tired, man. I want to be done with this assignment once and for all.”
“I get that. Listen, I looked into that Christopher Matthews like you asked. Do you know who his number one client is?”
“Lazarus?”
“Not quite. He’s got only one client, and it’s some shell corporation called Blackfriar.”
“Never heard of it.”
“We’re looking into it, but guess who’s the managing partner listed on the company’s paperwork.”
“Lazarus?” I ask again.
“Enzo Gabini.”
“No fucking way. I think Enzo may have killed Gregory Saunders.”
“What makes you think that?”
I shake my head, not quite sure of where I’m going with my thoughts. “Lazarus said at the club tonight that they were celebrating, and said Enzo took care of a problem.”
“Things are happening quickly. I know they’re moving a shipment of girls, so keep your eyes peeled.”
I scrub a hand down my jaw. “On it.” I hang up with him and I slump back into my chair.
I want to know everything I can about Christopher Matthews, and there’s only one person who I can talk to about him. Only one person who at a time knew him best.
You up?
Eva: Yes, why?
Can I come over? Have some questions for you.
Eva: Sure.
I strip out of the suit I wore at the club, the fabric heavy with the scent of smoke and spilled drinks. Tossing it aside, I grab a pair of worn jeans from the dresser and tug them on. I pull a gray t-shirt over my head, the soft cotton clinging to my skin, grounding me in the simplicity of the moment.
I head out the door, the night air cool against my skin, crisp with the scent of autumn. The moon hangs low in the sky, a glowing crescent that bathes the streets in a soft, silver light. It’s late—too late for most people to be out—but the quiet only heightens my awareness. Every sound, every breath, seems amplified in the stillness.
I mount my bike, the metal frame cold beneath my fingers as I grip the handlebars. The ride to Eva’s place isn’t long—just a mile or so—but it feels like an eternity. Each pedal stroke carries me closer to her, my mind racing as fast as my heart. The rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath my tires fills the air, the moonlight guiding me along the narrow roads that twist through the town.