Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23544 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 118(@200wpm)___ 94(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23544 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 118(@200wpm)___ 94(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Nature is screaming at me to stop taking my birth control pills so I can have his babies. I’d love to see what I’d look like with a big pregnant belly, and I don’t even know what I want to do with my life yet. I don’t even have my shit together.
Is this love at first sight? Or am I just flooded with endorphins from losing my virginity and having my brains fucked out by a complete Adonis? I don’t know. What I do know is that I need some recovery time—some time to think about all this, and Mal probably doesn’t want a clinger hanging around his house all day, so I am going to actually let him drive me home later. The last thing I want to do is potentially screw up what we’ve got going so far.
I glance to my right, expecting to find Mal fast asleep beside me, but all I see is an empty side of the bed and a pillow with an indentation in it. I sit up, and then I hear the noise from downstairs—the sounds of cooking.
I quickly swing my legs out of bed, go into the bathroom, splash some water on my face and do something with my hair so I don’t look like a total scarecrow, then throw my clothes on. I find Mal in the kitchen making eggs, already with a cooked pile of bacon beside him and a stack of toast. He smiles at me as I come in through the door.
“I thought the smell of my incredible cooking might wake you.”
“Oh, you’re Gordon Ramsay now?” I tease.
“Goddamn right I am,” he replies, putting on a British accent that’s actually pretty decent. “And if you don’t get your ass over here right now, little missy, there’s going to be consequences. Serious fucking consequences.”
“Ooh.” I smile, swaying my hips as I make my way over to him as he stirs the eggs. “My cute little ass, you mean?”
Mal’s eyes brighten, and he nods, slipping a hand down my pants to give my left cheek a firm squeeze. “It’s as if you could read my mind.”
“It’s a trait I have. I just don’t tell most men about it. It lessens the strength of my powers.”
“Of course.” Mal chuckles. “That makes perfect sense.”
He kisses me in a way that makes me feel like just another one of his possessions—but in a good way. In a wonderful way. He points behind me and asks me to pass him a couple of plates, and I help him serve up our breakfast, then carry it over to the table, which is nicely situated by the large double doors looking out at the well-landscaped back yard.
We eat together, and I do my best to keep my mind in one place—focused on the man in front of me—but it’s just not possible. I think about what it would be like to gloat and break this news to Chris and see the stupid look on his dumb face that he wasn’t the one who got to claim me, I think about what it’s going to be like to explain all this to Sarah and whether or not she’s going to understand why I did it. And I wonder whether or not I should say anything to Mal about what he and I are going to do moving forward.
Thankfully, the breakfast is fantastic—Mal really is a great cook—and that helps to keep me focused a bit on what’s in front of me. When we’re both finished, we wash the dishes at his enormous farmhouse style sink. I try to do them myself since he cooked, but he just won’t let me.
“No, I insist,” he says, so there’s really nothing I can do. What are my options? Fight him off? He’s twice my size! So what do I do? Just as he’s finishing up on the pan he cooked the eggs in, I drop to my knees and tug his pants down. I guess he wasn’t expecting this, because he sort of gasps as I grab his cock and take it into my mouth. Still, even if he wasn’t expecting it, it takes him less than a handful of seconds to get fully hard and fill out my cheeks.
“Erika, you sure you’ve never done this before?” he asks, looking down at me with admiration that feels so incredible. It’s like pure physical praise being poured over me.
I can’t speak, so I simply moan a negative and look up at him with eyes that say nope and keep sucking. He finishes scrubbing and sets the pan aside, then braces himself against the sink and threads his fingers through my hair. They’re mostly dry but still slightly damp, which turns me on for some reason. I really couldn’t explain why.
My knees hurt—the floor of his kitchen is hard tile—but I don’t complain. I don’t even try to readjust myself. I just keep doing my duty, bobbing up and down on his warm, thick manhood, until I feel a pulse and hear a deep groan from above.