Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
“Fuuuuck!” is my shout. “Shit shit shit!”
Eliza clasps my shoulders as shudders run through her curvy form. She bounces a few more times on my thickness, her big breasts swaying and I almost lose it again. Holy fuck, the young girl’s sexy as she pants and moans, her climax incredibly beautiful to behold.
But all good things must come to an end, and soon, the ecstasy subsides a bit. We stay locked together for a minute, my dick crammed up tight in her sweetness, both of us breathing hard. I rest my forehead against hers, the air between us thick with desire and satisfaction.
After a minute, Eliza slides off, straightens her dress, and kisses me again, softer this time.
“Thanks for the tour, Commander,” she says in a naughty tone. “I really enjoyed it.”
I laugh, tuck myself back in, and wonder how the hell I’ve lost control. I just claimed my date in an empty museum, but there are guards on 24/7 duty. We could have been caught, so what the fuck am I thinking?
But it’s only too obvious what I’m thinking because Eliza reaches down then, pulling the hem of her skirt up. Sure enough, there’s virile cream leaking from her just-fucked vag, and she dabbles one finger in the liquid before lifting it to her lips for a naughty lick.
“Mmm,” she coos while smirking at me. “You taste good.”
Holy fuck, did the young woman just do that? But sure enough, Eliza’s already turned and walking towards the exit. I stagger in her wake, shoes squeaking on polished concrete, and see an elderly security guard watching from the shadows near the main exhibit. He shakes his head, and then looks away and pretends not to see anything.
Meanwhile, my girl remains unperturbed. “That was fun,” Eliza quips, grabbing my hand .
I look at the young woman, really look, and for the first time in years, I feel light. My heart feels like a feather, and my entire being feels like it could float away.
“It was fun,” I rasp, tucking a stray piece of golden hair behind her ear. “But you’re a bad girl, you know that?”
“I know. But where to next?” she asks.
I grin. “I’ve got a place.”
We step into the night, and as the moon shines on our forms, something new coalesces in my heart. I don’t know what it is yet … but only this particular young woman can make me feel this way.
La Rosette doesn’t have a sign; it just has a door. Heavy oak, polished to a spit-shine, with a brass handle that’s cold and heavy as a sidearm. Inside, it’s low light and old school accents—vinyl banquettes, actual candles, the kind of cutlery you could rob a bank with. I know the owner, Serge, from the old days: Air Force food procurement in Guam, a pair of black-market caviar scams, and more than a few all-nighters that ended in police stations. He’s portly now, bald as a missile, but his smile is the same: big, predatory, and full of secrets.
“Jack!” he shouts, arms wide, and then lowers his voice when he sees Eliza. “And mademoiselle, what a pleasure.” He gives her a once-over and nods approvingly. “You have my best table. No one will bother you.” He escorts us through the restaurant’s main room, past the glitterati of St. Cloud—if such a thing exists—and into a nook screened off by tall planters and a half-wall of vintage Champagne crates. It’s almost a booth, but not quite, forcing us to sit on the same side or risk brushing knees every time we move.
We decide to occupy the same side, and Eliza slides in first, smoothing her dress around her knees, blonde hair a golden wave on her shoulder. I take my spot next to her, close enough that our thighs touch, and within seconds, Serge is back with a bottle of red and a basket of bread still steaming from the oven.
“You want to start with the house favorite?” he asks, already uncorking.
I nod. “And bring whatever you think the lady will like for dessert. The best.”
He winks and is gone, leaving us with a bottle, two glasses, and the velvet hum of other people’s lives just out of sight.
Eliza pours herself a glass, swirls, sniffs, and takes a long, slow sip. The wine leaves a stain on her lips, dark and glossy. “This is amazing, Jack. And the museum was incredible too. You really know how to impress a girl.”
I raise my glass. “You’re the one who’s amazing, sweetheart. But I’m glad you enjoy it because I do my best.”
The pretty blonde leans in, voice low. “But is this what you do on all your dates? Private museums, fancy dinners?”
I shrug a little and grin. “Only for the good girls who deserve it.”
She bites her lower lip, and it’s either the wine or the lighting, but her pretty pout is so swollen that I have half a mind to whisk her out of the restaurant before devouring her in my car. But that would be incredibly caveman-like and so we talk. And by talk, I mean we truly communicate, layer by layer. She asks about my last deployment; I tell her the PG version, then the real one, just for her. I ask about her job, and she admits she hates being a paralegal, despite being incredible at her job.