Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
“You…did?”
“I never heard the story of how you started your business, so I guess I got into it. Broke character.”
Warmth floods my chest. Chased by something deeper. An affection that feels big and boundless. “You were just enjoying my story?”
“Don’t say that like it’s such a surprise,” he says.
I rewind to the beginning of the Dashiell date. “Were you role-playing at the start with the hair tie?”
His eyes blaze. They’re almost hard. “No. That was me. I don’t fucking know if this guy would remember to get you a hair tie. But I would, so I got it last night.”
It comes out rough and intense like sandpaper, and yet it has the opposite effect on me. It feels like sweet heat, and it melts me. I can’t resist him. I lean in for a kiss, then catch myself just seconds before my lips brush his. “I didn’t mean to break the rules—”
“But I do,” he says, curling a hand around my head.
Kissing me hard.
Passionately.
He grips my face, murmuring against my mouth, groaning.
God, the sound is so borderline feral that I surrender. I lean my head back, and he reads all my cues, dipping his face and kissing my throat right next to my ladybug necklace.
Before I know it, I’m moaning in a way that’s quite inappropriate for an outdoor burger shack. I maneuver a hand between us, pressing it to his chest.
He stops the kiss with a hard shudder. A dark look in those blue eyes. “Let’s get out of here,” he says, and we race out to the parking lot.
Once we’re in his car, he can’t keep his hands off me. He’s kissing me ravenously, like he’ll go mad if he can’t touch me.
I’ve never been kissed like this, and I don’t want to be kissed any other way again. I can’t keep my hands off him either. One palm slides down his firm chest. The other travels to the steel outline in his jeans.
Monroe lets out a heady breath as I stroke him. Then headier as I grip his hard length. I should wait till we’re back at the house. But I’m so keyed up that I rub my hand harder, driven by his grunts, his groans.
And by this new desire gaining speed inside me. It’s a desire I rarely feel, but it’s consuming me now as I fondle his covered cock.
He breaks the kiss, grabs my chin. “What are you doing to me?”
I smile. Maybe a little wickedly. But also…boldly. “Well, I was definitely hoping to do something to you.”
He lifts a brow in question. “What’s that?”
I palm him some more, drawing out more of those needy grunts. “I have this thing…”
“Okay?”
“I haven’t really loved giving blow jobs ever, but I’m definitely into your cock.”
His eyes widen in surprise. I’m not sure if it’s over the blow job admission or my avid interest in his dick, but I power on. “And I’d like to suck you. But…”
He swallows, then asks in a careful, controlled voice. “But what?”
There’s no pressure in his tone, just the razor’s edge of curiosity.
I flashback to Monday morning when he teased me about bike riding. “You said the other day you were good at teaching. And, fine, we were talking about riding bikes, but it got me to thinking, especially since this whole—” I stop before I say experiment. This thing feels like so much more, and yet it is just that. “Since this experiment is about teaching.”
A dark cloud passes over his eyes, but quickly it fades, replaced by a flickering flame. “And…?”
Chin up. No shame. “I want you to teach me to give a blow job you’d really like, but one I’d like too. Would you be my blow-job coach?”
He guns the engine, while I seize the moment, plugging in my phone and calling up a tune.
In seconds, Akinyele’s “Put It In Your Mouth” blasts through the air-conditioned car.
Monroe drives faster—maybe too fast. He whizzes past a sign for a road construction detour and then slams on the brakes as we hurdle toward the blockade.
24
LOLLIPOP TEACHER
Monroe
“Fuck me,” I groan from the center of my law-abiding soul. Okay, mostly law-abiding. There were those months in college when I hosted an underground poker game. But the money I nabbed from the rich frat guys? Worth the risk.
In the rearview mirror, a big, bearded guy in a hard hat and orange vest trudges toward me, his expression stern as a school principal’s behind aviator shades. Shit. “I should get my license and registration,” I say.
Juliet ends the racy song but gives me a doubtful look. “They don’t need license and registration at a construction site,” Juliet whispers, gently rubbing my arm in apology.
“Right, right,” I say, shaking my head then peering behind me. The guy looks pissed.
“But still, I’m sorry,” she adds.
I wave a hand dismissively, exonerating her. “I’ll take a thousand pissed-off dudes. Hell, I’ll take a thousand speeding tickets for being your—”