Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
“She sounds wonderful,” I say tightly.
“She was,” he agrees and I dig my nails in his t-shirt, hating it and wanting it off.
Because I want to get to his skin.
I want to scratch his skin.
Maybe I should have drenched him in my tears after all so he’d be bare -chested now and all available for me to scratch and draw blood.
“Although,” he continues, moving closer to me, putting his hand up on the bedpost, above my head. “That wasn’t the best part.”
“What was the best part?”
He licks his lips again. “Her dress.”
“Why, because it was skimpy?”
Because he’d notice that, wouldn’t he?
“No,” he rumbles. “That’s the thing though, it wasn’t. It covered almost every part of her.”
“So then why?”
“Because even though it did cover her up,” his voice drops low, “I could see.”
“See what?”
“Everything.”
My heart’s racing now. “Like?”
“Like the line of her panties.”
My breath hitches. And then explodes.
At the fact that he said panties.
Something that he’d typed in the texts. He said it exactly how I pictured it in my head.
Exactly.
Low, rough, deep.
And I swear to God, I feel my own panties coming alive, the elastic digging into my flesh, the fabric rubbing into my skin.
“I —”
“And her cute little belly button.”
I suck in my own belly as I feel it.
My own belly button.
Although I don’t think that’s even possible, but there you have it.
“It looked so fragile. So fucking delicate and small. Like a swipe on her tight little tummy. Made my mouth fucking water.”
I don’t even try to say anything at this.
I know I wouldn’t be able to.
“And the best thing,” he dips his voice and leans in, “I could see her tits.”
“What?” I squeak.
“Yeah, she wasn’t wearing a bra, see. So I could see her perky fucking tits. All round and heavy and so fucking plump. Kinda like her mouth. You know, ripe and juicy. Fruity. Something you could sink your teeth in and just suck.”
His ‘suck’ hits me in my chest, in my own breasts, and they grow heavier than before.
Heavier and fuller.
Swollen.
And I realize that I should never have asked him this question.
I should’ve let him leave.
Because I don’t want to hear any more. I don’t want to hear him talk about this wild girl he met in the woods one night.
Whose skin was made of moondust and whose lips reminded him of juicy fruits.
“Her nipples too, by the way,” he goes on though, oblivious to the turmoil inside of me, “I could see them as well. The size of a quarter and so fucking hard. Like bullets. Just pink and rosy. Slightly darker than the dress she had on. Made me wonder how much harder they’d get, if I sucked on them. Much, much harder I bet. Much darker too, than the threadbare pink sleep shirt she was wearing.” Then, “But I didn’t want to scare her. She looked like she’d never had her nipples sucked before.”
I’m breathing harder. A lot harder than before.
I’m also slightly dizzy.
Not to mention, my body is buzzing. My body is… singing.
That’s the only word for it.
My belly is all tremble-y and my breasts are so heavy. So achingly and painfully heavy.
But that’s nothing in the face of how achy and painful my nipples are. They’re so hard that they burn with the pain. They’re punching holes through my threadbare pink sleep shirt. They…
What?
Wait a second. Just wait.
Did he say threadbare pink sleep shirt?
He did, didn’t he?
He…
My eyes go wide and a gasp escapes me.
He noticed. He freaking noticed.
Not to mention, he was lying, wasn’t he?
“Y-you were… lying,” I say my thoughts out loud.
His growl of assent is his only response and I snatch my hands back, ready to fold my arms across my chest and cover myself up, ready to push him away even.
But he doesn’t let me.
Because he comes even closer, crowding me against the bedpost, hardly leaving any space between us for me to put my arms up as defenses. And when I look into his eyes, swallowing and blushing, I find that he isn’t amused.
Like he usually is.
When I walk into one of his double entendres or dirty jokes.
His eyes are intense. Blazing.
They’re more red than brown as he rasps, “My turn, yeah?”
“T-turn for what?”
“To know.”
My breaths break. “There’s nothing to —”
“Have you?”
“Have I what?”
Instead of answering, he lowers his eyes and even though I’m still staring up at him, I know what he’s looking at. I know he’s looking at them.
My tits, my nipples.
Because he’s making them hurt.
He’s making them burn even harder.
“Reign,” I whisper as a plea, asking him to stop.
Thankfully, he lifts his eyes. “Had them sucked.”
I can’t believe he’s asking me that.
I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. This… This filthy, inappropriate conversation, and I breathe out a puff of air, my belly tightening, aching much like my tits. “That’s… That’s none of your business. I can’t… believe you’d ask me that.”