Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 224334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1122(@200wpm)___ 897(@250wpm)___ 748(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 224334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1122(@200wpm)___ 897(@250wpm)___ 748(@300wpm)
Food? My stomach turns, my body rejecting the idea. My dick, however? “Yes, you do,” I agree. “And I want my Ava, stripped naked and lying on our bed so I can binge on her.” All week long. All month long. Fuck, forever, just nibbling, licking, sucking, kissing every inch of her. And when I’m done, I’ll start all over again. And again. And again, and again, and again.
I rise, bringing Ava up with me. “I’m all for that,” she says, hanging from my front. “But I need to feed my man. Food now, loving later.”
She’s got it all wrong. “Loving now, food later.” I set her wet form on the vanity unit and take a moment to admire her there.
“Where’s your bandage?” she whispers, her eyes on my battered hand as I take a towel and start to dry her off.
“It was getting in my way.” An obstacle, like so many other things in this world hell-bent on holding me back. I wrap her in the towel and hurl her forward onto my mouth. The pain that shoots through my hand makes me flinch, and she doesn’t miss it.
“Please, let me feed you.” The imploring in her voice brings on a surge of guilt. She’s worried, and I made that happen because of my fucked-up inability to hold myself the fuck together.
This guilt I can fix. “Okay.” I relent easily. “Food now, loving later.” I force a smile, rub my nose across hers and press my lips to her forehead, breathing her into me. She’s cold. “Come on,” I whisper, taking her under her arms. “You need some dry clothes.” I engage to lift and get batted away. “Hey.”
“Your hand.” She points to the still-swollen limb. “It’s never going to heal if you’re hoofing me all over the place.” She’s off the unit before I can protest, and just as I’m about to enforce my demand to carry her, she starts stripping out of her dress and my brain turns to mush. Fuck me sideways, would you just look at her. She denies me closeness and then does shit like this?
I swoop in and toss her onto my shoulder, ignoring the pain my move causes. “I like hoofing you about.” I fling her onto the bed. “Where’s your stuff?”
“In the spare room.”
I snarl at her, getting my point across, before plodding to the spare bedroom at the far end of the landing, dripping everywhere. “Fucking spare room,” I mutter, snatching up all of her things until they’re pilled in my arms and taking them back to where they should be. “There.” I drop it all on the bed in a heap, and Ava starts rummaging through. She pulls out some knickers and a top. Knickers that aren’t lace. Seriously, lady?
Moving in, I confiscate her knickers of choice and find a pair of my choice. They should be her choice too. “Always in lace,” I say, smiling on the inside as she accepts and slips them on.
I peel my wet shorts down my legs and pull on some dry ones, feeling her watching my every move. I hope she’s regretting her insistence on food now, loving later. I turn and find her pouting. Definitely regretting it. Silly woman. I collect her and take her down to the kitchen.
Dropping her to her bare feet, I sink my face into her wet hair and steal a kiss as she pushes her palms into my chest, trying to get away. Reluctantly, I release her and she turns off the music, going to the fridge. “What do you want?”
“I don’t mind.” I spot my peanut butter on the shelf and move in to seize it. “I’ll have what you’re having.” Her bare neck glistening within range pulls my mouth there.
“Put that back,” she orders, trying to claim my vice, her face screwed up in disgust. Not a chance. I dip out of her way, amused, and put myself on a stool, making fast work of getting into the jar. One generous scoop loads my finger, and I inhale, slipping it into my mouth on a victorious grin.
“You’re a child.” She turns back to fridge and pulls out some chicken. She’s going to cook for me. Like a woman who wants to look after her man. I probably sound like a pig. Don’t care.
“I’m a child because I like peanut butter?”
“No, you’re a child because of the way you eat peanut butter.” She places the tray of chicken on the worktop and pouts, thinking. “No one over the age of ten should finger-dip jars, and as I’m being kept in the dark over your age, I assume you’re over ten.” Her look is fierce but playful all at once. She loves our game too.
I ignore her dig about age. “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.” I take another scoop and offer it across the island as she faffs with the chicken, placing it in an oven dish. “Here.”