Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
When I finally opened my eyes, I saw brown hair and let it go, stepping back immediately. Sonya smiled, then coughed while wiping the tears from the sides of her face.
“You trying to kill her with that monster dick of yours?” Gathe asked, amused.
I put myself back in my boxer briefs and pulled up my jeans. “Don’t be jealous.”
He chuckled. “I’m fine with the size of mine. Yours can scare a bitch off.” He kissed the neck of the one in his lap, whose tits were now bare and was riding his hand, breathing hard. “Isn’t that right, darlin’? You like taking my dick, don’t you?”
She nodded and moaned.
“You got her all worked up with that performance. She keeps this up, she’s gonna have to get on my dick and get me off,” he said gruffly.
Sonya stood up and began pulling off the halter top she was wearing. I glanced at her tits, then back at the television. They were nice. Real even. Maybe a handful, with dark nipples and little pale triangles of skin where her bikini top had covered them. But with the image in my head that was now taunting me, I had another set of tits that I wanted to see bare.
“Fuck me,” she begged as she went to pull up the short skirt she was wearing.
No panties. Not surprising.
I wasn’t sure I could get it up that fast. I tried to get turned on by the sight of her pussy on display. She lifted a leg and opened up, stretching it out on the back of the sofa like a ballerina. One red painted nail slid down between her cunt lips, and she was wet.
“I want your monster cock to stretch me.”
Eh, it wasn’t going to stretch her that much. I’d fucked her before, and she had left her virginity behind many years ago. She was already pretty worn in. But if she wanted to pretend, then I’d go with it.
My phone buzzed in my back pocket, and I reached for it, pulling it out, already knowing who I wanted it to be. I’d not texted Noa today on purpose. Just to prove to myself I could go without texting her for one day. I’d watched the app on my phone to see where she was several times—okay, at least twice an hour—and I might have listened to the wire I had in her apartment. All I heard was the tapping of the keys on her computer mostly. She muttered a few times, which made me grin. And she hadn’t left her apartment in two days. I’d be concerned, but she was writing, and this seemed to be her routine.
Shakespeare: Did you know ketchup was once sold as medicine?
I grinned and turned to walk away from the room, not wanting anyone to see my phone.
Me: What the fuck did it heal?
“Who is it?” Gathe called out.
I kept walking and didn’t answer.
“You’re gonna just walk out on that?” he asked incredulously.
On what?
I paused and glanced back to see Sonya and her open legs. I’d forgotten.
My phone vibrated, and my eyes swung back to see the response.
Shakespeare: Indigestion in 1834.
“Dude!” Gathe shouted as I left the room.
“She’s all yours,” I told him, then went into the game room and closed the door behind me.
Me: Why do you know this?
I hit Send and sat on the edge of the pool table.
Shakespeare: Research. The things I look up when writing can be crazy. For example, I also learned today that Harry Styles has four nipples. I had to see a picture of it, and, well, he pulls it off well.
I frowned. How did one pull off having four nipples?
Me: What in the fuck were you googling to find that out?
Shakespeare: What it’s called when you have more than two nipples. Don’t ask. I was down a rabbit hole. It happens.
I chuckled.
Me: Your day sounds like it was fascinating.
I was regretting not putting cameras in her apartment. I’d like to see what she was wearing, if she had all that hair in many shades of gold pulled up in a bun with a pen sticking through it.
Shakespeare: You have no idea. My terry-cloth robe has a tomato soup stain from my lunch, and my parakeet keeps telling me to shut the fuck up.
Me: What did you eat with your soup?
My cheeks hurt from the fucking big-ass grin on my face as I sent it.
Shakespeare: Grilled cheese. I’m not an alien.
And again, I laughed. The tension that the blow job hadn’t eased was gone. Damn, I wasn’t sure if this was a good thing or not. I mean, on one hand, hadn’t this always been why I texted her? Held on to the girl from my youth via text because she always distracted me when I needed it? Just because she wasn’t sitting in a dirty bathrobe with a squawking bird didn’t mean it changed things.