Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
A minute later, his footsteps sound, and he pads across the floor, then stops. “Lola.”
It’s so stern.
I turn around.
His eyes are narrowed. Then he shakes his head, tsking me as he closes the distance between us and cups my cheeks. “Take off your dress. Get in bed. I’m not at all done with you.”
I throw a parade as I strip, then race to the bed.
8
SEXY MAD LIBS
Layla
Before the sun rises, I’m on the cusp of my fourth orgasm. Nick’s lying on his side, fucking me with his fingers. I’m a panting, gasping, writhing woman, my leg flung over him. I’m spread wide open while he works me into a frenzy.
I arch my hips and explode into bliss.
I can’t stop crying out, can’t stop moaning.
It’s like I’m on vacation and every meal is more sinful than the one before.
Four.
Four.
When I finally shake off the orgasm fairy dust, I gaze dopily at the handsome man. “Can I do something for you?”
“I like making you feel good,” he says, then shifts me so we can spoon.
Dear god, his warm body. His big arms. His obsession with my pleasure. He’s like a fairy-tale prince who can fuck like a porn star.
But then, do porn stars fuck like this? I don’t watch much porn. I mostly just watch gifs of men and women getting themselves off. Solo. That always does it for me—a personal pursuit of pleasure, no matter the seeker.
So all this sex stuff is new. Sex talk is new.
And so is this—cuddling.
He sighs contentedly against me as a sliver of light peeks through the hotel blinds. “Your flight’s in three hours,” he says.
“I know,” I say, pouting, wishing this stolen night wasn’t ending. But the rising sun says otherwise.
“Mine’s in three hours and thirty minutes.” He sounds wistful and that surprises me, so I wait to see where he’s going. “If I didn’t live in London, I’d ask you to dinner tonight,” he says.
I tense. Isn’t this what we said we’d avoid last night? Why is he creating expectations then? Hypothetical ones, but still. “You would?” I ask cautiously.
“Yes. Does that bother you? What I just said?”
I pause to assess what I’m feeling. Is he suggesting closeness? Emotional intimacy? Not really. So I’m safe. “No, but you said no expectations,” I point out.
“And yet I want to take you out to your favorite restaurant, order a decadent dessert, then dance with you again.”
Code for fuck.
But code for fuck sends a burst of tingles down my belly, headed straight for my core. I let out a murmur, unbidden.
He tugs me closer. “Kiss you again. Taste you again. Introduce you to so many other ways to fuck,” he says.
Hello, teacher. I wriggle against him. “Color me intrigued.”
“Would you like that, Lola?”
Is this a real offer, or fantasy pillow talk? I don’t even know what game we’re playing. But I’m a good enough actress. I’ve learned how to put on a face. “You could take me to my favorite club in Manhattan,” I say, since what the hell? I’ll go along with him.
“Pull you into a dark corner,” he says, brushing my hair away from my neck. Making me shiver.
“Touch me there. In public,” I say, playing sexy mad libs.
“Get you all worked up. Then bring you back to my hotel and bend you over the bed.”
Yes, this is the fantasy pillow talk portion of our one-night stand. I can handle this, even though his mouth cruises across my shoulder, drifting closer to my ink.
I tense briefly when he leans in to dust a kiss across the flower on my shoulder. But he either doesn’t notice my reaction or he reads me instantly, since he doesn’t stay there or ask me about it. Not that I’d tell him. I don’t feel a need to tell anyone what my tattoo means.
“And then I’d take you to breakfast in the morning,” he says softly, continuing laying out his agenda for this make-believe date.
Is a morning-after breakfast too much? But it’s a fantasy date so it doesn’t really matter. Besides, I like breakfast, and him so far. “Sounds nice.”
He exhales again, like he’s letting go of the tale just as he lets go of his hold on me.
Nick flops to his back, parking his hands behind his head. He’s staring at the ceiling. Maybe lost in thought. “There’s this great wine bar I’ve been wanting to try. It’s on Seventy-Third and Amsterdam. Hugo’s. It opened a year ago,” he says.
And the fantasy isn’t over. It’s getting awfully specific.
The sun is rising higher now, and the early light of dawn illuminates his handsome face. “I’ve heard about Hugo’s. My friend Ethan is always searching out new restaurants, and he’s been talking up that one, and my—”
I cut myself off before I say my mom loves to have her lawyer snag me reservations at the hottest joints.