Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Thirty fucking minutes. There’s no way I’m making it that long without going insane.
I haul myself out of the shower and towel off in record time, adrenaline still spiking through my veins like I’m prepping for a prize fight. I barely glance at the clock, but every second drags like torture. I throw on a pair of jeans and a black tee, then head out to pick up the clothes trail I left in the living room.
5
cydney
The second my front door clicks shut, I don’t waste one second. My workout clothes hit the laundry basket in record time. I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror, seeing wild hair, flushed cheeks, and lips kinda swollen from nervously biting them during my run.
I crank the shower to scalding hot and step right in. Steam rises instantly, fogging up the glass and making every square inch of my skin tingle.
God, it feels so good. My tense muscles finally start to unclench, the heat kneading away every last knot and leftover anxiety. Water runs in rivulets down my neck, over my shoulders, and in that blissful moment, I let my head fall back and just breathe. For five glorious seconds, I pretend my body’s not wound so tight that it might snap if you so much as poked it.
But then, a traitorous part of my brain does what it always does: rewinds straight to Oliver.
I close my eyes and conjure up the way he looked in the gym earlier—sweat-damp hair, biceps bulging under that inky tank top, eyes dark and zeroed in on me like I was a five-star dessert and he’d skipped dinner. And the way his mouth curved up when he caught me watching him. Just the memory alone threatens to knock me off my feet.
I let my hands wander. Slow at first, then faster, hungrier, sliding over my curves the same way I’ve been dying for him to do. I imagine it’s his hands on me instead of my own.
Oh, God. I squeeze my eyes tighter and bite down on my lip. One hand cups my breast, thumb flicking over my nipple until it’s tight and oh-so-sensitive. The other trails lower. I’m already slick and needy and, honestly, shame left the building the moment I laid eyes on Oliver Burkhardt.
The fantasy freaking consumes me, fast and filthy, like a wildfire licking up dry timber. Oliver’s body is plastered against my back, solid and unyielding, his heat searing through me like I’m nothing but tinder waiting to burn. The tiles are cool and slick against my palms, but his skin is everywhere else. His chest pressed into my spine, his cock a hard, demanding line against my ass, and his hand wrapped tight around my waist, pinning me in place like he owns me. And let’s be real, he does.
His other hand slides between my legs like he’s claiming territory, his fingers rough and insistent, parting my folds with zero hesitation. I’m already dripping, my pussy clenching around nothing, begging for him. He growls in my ear, low and guttural, his breath hot and wet against my skin. “Live dangerously,” he says, and it’s not just a suggestion but a promise. His voice is a dark, heady mix of promise and punishment, and it makes me shiver.
My hips buck forward, desperate for more friction, but he holds me still, his grip like iron. “Oliver—” I choke out, my voice raw and wrecked, not even close to a whisper. Instead, his fingers move faster, rougher, rubbing tight, relentless circles over my clit like he’s trying to carve his name into me. I’m gasping, panting, my knees wobbling like I’m about to collapse, but he doesn’t let me fall.
My fingers are working too, frantic and messy, trying to keep up with the firestorm fantasy Oliver is lighting inside me. I can feel it building, coiling tight in my belly. My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to escape while I moan Oliver’s name, ragged and desperate.
But he’s not done. His fingers dip lower, sliding through my slick heat, teasing my entrance before plunging inside without warning. I cry out, my body jerking against the tiles while his fingers plunge deeply and relentlessly. He curls them to hit the spot that sets off fireworks behind my closed eyelids. His thumb stays on my clit, rubbing circles that are almost cruel in their precision while I tremble so close to the edge that I can taste it.
“Come for me,” he growls in my ear. His voice is pure dominance, and I can’t fight it, don’t want to. My orgasm crashes over me like a wave, deep and all-consuming, and I’m screaming his name, over and over, until my voice breaks. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, just keeps working me through it until I’m limp and boneless, held up only by his grip on my waist.