Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
A loud purr emanates from the feline. Jason sighs, aggrieved. “You’re killing me, CockBlocker,” he says to the animal. Then, to me, “Aren’t you like a cat trainer? Can’t you train him to let me have my dick sucked in peace? There’s fresh catnip on the table if you need it.”
“Pretty sure I’ve got his number without the ’nip,” I say, then scoop up the cat, stroke his head a few times, and murmur sweet nothings as I carry him to the other side of the couch. Cradling the cat in one arm, I arrange a pillow as a bed and set him on it. “There you go, King CockBlocker.”
The cat curls up in a tight ball and closes his eyes.
Then I return to the man. “He just wants to be treated like royalty too.”
Jason’s done with cat talk, though. His blue eyes flicker with heat. “C’mere.”
Never has one mushed-together word made me so hot. So wanted.
Jason offers me a hand. I take it, and he tugs me down to his lap. I straddle him, waiting for a cue.
“First, I need to see what you’ve been hiding, Beck,” he rumbles.
My brow knits. I’m an open book right now. “What do you mean?” My voice wobbles.
He grabs at my button-down. “I saw some ink on you earlier.”
“Oh,” I say with a smile as he undoes the buttons on my shirt, then pushes it off.
“It got me hot,” he adds. Then he groans as he runs his fingers along the sunburst on my right shoulder, then over the griffin on my pec, then across a lotus flower gracing the top of my biceps. “Mmm,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t ask what they mean, and I’m grateful.
I don’t want to talk about the symbols on my body. I want to deal with the feelings inside my body.
“Take off my shirt now,” he instructs.
That’s another thing I’m grateful for. His instructions. “I’m very good at following orders,” I say as I tug at the hem of his T-shirt.
He sits up taller, giving me room to pull it off him. “I know you are, nine,” he says, using my number and making me smile in the middle of all this unbelievable heat.
I pull the shirt over his head, then toss it to the floor, and holy fuck. I catch my breath and stare shamelessly at his chest, his abs, his arms.
“You’re so . . .” But I’m having such a hard time saying the right words. Beautiful, sexy, hot.
He threads a hand through my hair. “So are you, Beck,” he says, answering my unspoken praise.
Jason makes me feel so good about my lack of experience in the bedroom. He makes it easy to say the next thing: “I want to know what turns you on.”
“Men who know what they want,” he answers confidently. “A man who shows up at my house on a Monday night and lays it on the line. That’s what turns me on.”
Now there are two of us who feel like kings. I catch a glimpse of the cat out of the corner of my eye. Make that three.
Still . . .
“But I want to know what you like. I really don’t want to fuck this up,” I confess as I roam my hands over his firm pecs and shoulders.
I need to touch him everywhere.
He grabs my wrist, stopping my crude journey across his body and looking me in the eyes. “Do you trust me?”
The answer flies from my tongue. “Completely.”
He leans closer and brings his lips to mine. “I’ve got you,” he says, then he takes my hand and presses it to his cock again, but he’s specific this time. He slides my fingers over the fabric of his shorts, outlining the head. There’s a wet spot.
“My dick is leaking, Beck,” he says, in a barren confession that makes my balls tighten. “Now, get down on the floor, and slowly, really slowly, like you’re fucking torturing me, take my clothes off.”
Grinning like I won a game, I slide off his legs and then down to the floor, staring up at the beautiful man in front of me. He lifts his hips, making it easy for me. “Just the shorts,” he rasps out.
I tug on the waistband and pull them down over his muscular thighs inch by inch, then to his ankles. He kicks them off.
I laugh when I see what he’s wearing. Blue boxer briefs. “Did you . . .?”
He lifts a brow playfully. “Did I what, Beck? Say it.”
I don’t want to be presumptuous, but he’s giving me a big clue. I press a hand to his erection, gripping him through the light blue fabric, squeezing.
“Ahhh,” he groans, his eyes floating closed for a few seconds.
That’s all the encouragement I need to finish the question: “Did you wear these for me?”