Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 22407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Feasts at his leisure.
Unhurriedly laps up the sticky, sweltering juices flowing so freely.
Sucks precede deliriously slow spins and those same agonizingly slow spins transpose into savagely stretched out licks that indicate this isn’t about pleasing me.
It’s about toying with me.
Playing with his food.
His prey.
His.
Little.
Prey.
“Pleaseeeeee,” squeezes my past gritted teeth, hooded eyes watching my green fabric dance across his shoulder blades. “Pleaseeeee,Wes.” Delighted grumbles add vibrations to the soaking wet situation causing my nails to clamp down harder. “Makemecome.”
Possessive grunts are attached to more ferocious motions.
“Makemescream.”
An even more pitiless push of his tongue is executed.
“Makemeyours.”
Animalistic growls reverberate between my thighs as he abandons the oscillation of playful pressures and teasing licks for crazed devouring.
Wes swiftly stiffens his tongue.
Shoves it inside.
Demands the slippery muscles welcome it.
Worship it.
Know that he is the one to obey.
To live for.
Break for.
Tiny hitches in my breath quickly grow into bigger gasps of desperation for air that my husband refuses to let me have.
Burning in my lungs becomes burning in my blood and nerves and bones until my entire body is not only fully engulfed in flames of ecstasy but shaking so uncontrollably that the very furniture underneath me threatens to collapse from the tempestuousness.
“W…W…” continuously gets caught against the plastic, makeshift gag. “W…”
Familiar huffs of disapproval hit my clit.
Get whipped around my sopping wet pussy.
Fucked into me deeper.
“W…”
His fingers barbarously claw at the sides of my ass as he yanks my trembling figure to his mouth again and again and again.
“W…e…”
Any lingering restraint is instantly severed from hearing me get closer to saying his name.
Giving him what it is he wants.
Earns.
I curl further inward towards the almost unbearable bliss, nails scratching my surrender into his scalp, toes Morse coding my submission against the chair, drips of spit spewing past the corners of my mouth, mere seconds from shattering, simply waiting for one final lick or flick to send me over the edge, yet rather than pick one of the obvious options, he chooses to pull his tongue completely out, skate his teeth along my clit, and end the thrashing with a single, ankle snapping, suck.
“Wesssssssssssssss!” The drenched object falls to my lap in defeat. “Wessssss!” Euphoric heat unforgivingly swallows me whole forcing my legs to snap shut around his head and shudder more. “Wesssss!” Pulsation on top of pulsation summons him to shove his tongue back inside to enjoy the white-hot quivers. “Wessss!”
How long I manage to stay melting against his mouth is unfortunately cut short by a familiar voice appearing on the other side of the door. “Of course.” Clark doesn’t bother knocking since it appears I left the door cracked versus entirely closed – the universal sign to knock first. “I’m just so grateful you were willing to keep the kids up this late to see their cousins.”
Wes slides from underneath my dress and presents me with an undeniably smug grin.
Fuckme.
I can’t even pretend like it’s not deserved.
The man still has an impeccable “can make me come in record timing” ability that I swear has only gotten better since we’ve added the complication of children into the mix.
“You’re sure they’re not busy?” Penny’s voice questions from the other end of the tablet. “We don’t have to interrupt them. We can always just email them later. I swear, it’s not a big deal, Dad.”
“We’re finished.” My husband devilishly beams while victoriously wiping his entire mouth with the palm of his hand. “Isn’t that right, Little Prey?”
This.
This is the bossy beast I’m happy I married, not the one who all but threw his oatmeal at the wall this morning when his son spitefully claimed Uncle Calen’s nerd t-shirt collection was better because it contains actual colors sparking the “black isn’t a color” debate that never ends well in this estate.
Smoothing my casual dress back down is followed promptly by Clark turning the device around to put us eye to eye with the woman I don’t love being related to.
I also don’t actively hate it.
Aside from the fact that her face looks similar to the Raggedy Ann bitch that was poisoning my mother – ultimately summoning me into a world I never wanna live without – she’s nothing like the manipulative twat banned from this country.
Her hair is shorter.
Skin slightly tanner.
Face and figure fuller from having two tooth achingly sweet daughters and one overly athletic son.
If I hadn’t personally dealt with her Poison Ivy ways, I’d be inclined to argue she was even capable of them considering how calm and collected and centered she constantly is.
Whatever mental health help she got – and still gets – has absolutely helped her change into a better person.
I just can’t completely forget – or entirely forgive – the other one.
And neither can Wes.
Hence why she’s still not allowed back into the states.
“Scott and I just wanted to express our sincerest thanks,” she sweetly coos at us. “Hockey is insanely expensive, and our son seems to be growing suspiciously fast.”