Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
What the fuck?
My first thought is it’s just my size, that she’s clenching too tight or needs a minute to adjust, but then I see Kat’s face.
She’s gone pale, her eyes gone huge and glassy. She’s biting her lip so hard she might bleed, and her cheeks are flushed. Her big breasts heave, the nipples hard, but I know she’s hurting.
I freeze, the truth dawning on me in a cold rush. My brain short-circuits. I look down, at her pussy lips pulled as thin as rubber bands around the circumference of my hard shaft. It’s hurting her, and it’s not just my size.
No fucking way.
Katherine is a virgin.
I pull out slowly, gentle as the my shiny rod exits those plush folds. She exhales with relief, but my dick is still hard, still throbbing, still glazed with her fluids. I stagger backward, tripping over the goddamn visitor’s chair, heart pounding like I’ve been shot.
Kat blinks, confused. She starts to sit up, skirt falling over her thighs, blouse half-open, nipples begging to be sucked. She reaches for me, a question in her eyes, but I can’t—there’s no words, nothing I can say that will make sense of this.
I grab the box of tissues from the desk, toss it to her, and just bolt. I’m out the door, up the stairs, and into the master suite, where I slam the door so hard the glass in the frame rattles. I lock it. I put my back to the wall and slide down until I’m sitting on the floor, suit pants still around my knees, my cock still half-hard and sticky with her nectar.
Jesus. Fuck.
I haven’t felt this much like a monster since the day my father left and never came back. There’s a nausea in my gut, but also—god help me—a heat, an animal pride, something masculine, possessive, and absolute. I close my eyes and try to breathe. I want to be angry at Sweet Lies, at Camille, at Kat for not saying anything, but the only thing that fills my head is the look on the beautiful woman’s face: the shock, the surrender, the way she never once said stop.
I sit there for an hour, maybe more, listening to the slow tick of the grandfather clock in the great room, and the muffled sounds of Kat moving around—bathroom, maybe, or kitchen, or just her feet on the stairs. Every time I hear her, my heart jumps, but I don’t move. I can’t face her. Not yet.
Eventually, my hard-on fades. I clean myself up, fix my clothes, and stare at the lines in the wood floor until the sun starts to go down.
I fucked up. Bad.
But the part that scares me most isn’t the proof of her innocence. It’s that I liked it.
I liked it more than anything I’ve ever had.
God help me.
That evening, the house is quieter than I’ve ever known it.
I stay in my office until the sky is purple and the windows show nothing but my own haunted reflection. I don’t write. I don’t drink. I just sit, hands locked behind my head, staring at the ceiling and listening to the echo of what I’ve done.
At some point, the smell of roasted chicken drifts through the door—Kat, making dinner like it’s any other night. I want to crawl out the window and run into the woods. Instead, I force myself up, wash my face, and walk into the kitchen like a man on death row.
She’s there, in jeans and a sweater, hair down and damp from a shower. She doesn’t look up when I come in, just keeps shredding lettuce into a bowl. Her hands are steady. Her narrow jaw is set. There’s a fresh Band-aid on her left thumb.
I stand there for a full minute before I say anything.
“Need help?”
She shakes her head, still not looking at me. “I’m good.”
The urge to apologize is so strong it burns my throat. Instead, I get plates from the cupboard, set the table, pour water for both of us. We move around each other in complete silence, as if we’ve rehearsed this choreography a hundred times.
When everything’s ready, we sit across from each other at the long pine table. She serves herself, then me, then starts eating, her lips plush as she chews. I copy her, but the food is dust in my mouth.
For a while, the only sounds are fork against plate, knife against chicken. Then:
“Pass the salt?” she says, voice small.
I hand it over. Our fingers brush. She flinches.
I’m drowning. I push away from the table, stand, pace the length of the room twice, then come back and sit down again.
“I didn’t know that you were a virgin,” I say. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She doesn’t answer. She tears a chunk of bread in half, stares at the torn edge, and sets it on the rim of her plate.