Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 111980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
She yelps.
“Nice ink,” I say, then I sink inside, filling her halfway.
“Oh fuuuuck.” She sounds desperate. Guttural even as she shudders.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Just surprised.”
I still myself, gripping her shoulder with one hand, the other curling around her hip. “By?”
“Your cock. It’s really big.”
The grin on my face should be illegal. “Sorry. Not sorry.”
“Never say you’re sorry for your cock. Now use it.”
When a woman tells you what she wants, you should listen. I ease out till I’m giving her just the tip. “Ready? You sure you’re ready?”
“Yes,” she says, demanding and needy at the same time.
“So greedy,” I tease, then I shut the fuck up as I shove inside her, filling her all the way.
With a sexy yelp, she splays her palms against the wall. It’s fucking cute, how she’s trying to hold on.
I slide out most of the way, then thrust back in. She shakes, her breath coming in sharp, ragged pants, her dress bunched up.
She’s a mess, and there’s nothing sexier than a woman undone—and by all accounts, Chloe is undone by my dick. I slide out, swivel my hips, then punch back in. Her tight, wet heat grips me, and right as I’m finding a pace, she drops her face and trembles everywhere.
All over.
Like a wave’s rolling down her body.
Oh.
Oh.
Her shoulders sag, and it takes a few seconds for me to connect the dots. I’m still a little shocked as I ask, “Chloe, did you…?”
She laughs, a drunk, happy sound. “Yes. I told you I was going to.”
And I feel like a fucking king. But a true king wouldn’t rest on his laurels. A king would take care of his queen, even if it was just for one night.
“Hold on tight then, sweetheart. Need to fuck another one out of you.”
“Go for it,” she says, all woozy, like she doesn’t have a care in the world.
Her happy noises make my cock even harder. Make me more determined. I fuck her hard, rough, a little mean, pounding into her against the wall as pleasure rockets through me. My bones are tight. My blood, hot. My cells crackle. The best part, though, is the way she moves. Fluidly, with me. Taking everything I have to give, Chloe moans, rocks back onto my dick, then maneuvers a hand between her thighs. She rubs fast, ferociously. With so much determination that heat roars down my spine, like a living, breathing plume of fire. And when a high-pitched noise escapes her throat, that’s all it takes. I tip over, pleasure blasting through me.
She’s right there with me, gasping, shuddering too, then slumping against the wall. She lets out a long, satisfied sigh, and it mingles with mine. With a dopey smile—I’m grateful she can’t see it—I wrap my arms around her. My heart’s hammering in my chest, pounding against her back. It’s strange—this feeling inside me right now. The sense that I don’t want the night to end. The vague sense, too, that we could maybe, possibly have another night. Or more?
But when the fog of release clears, I remind myself I don’t want more than one night. I won’t let myself get used to another person again. Not now, at least. Not when I have so much to accomplish. And when the pain of my cratered romance is so fresh.
I won’t let myself get used to this feeling.
I focus on the physical, since that won’t leave a jagged scar across my heart. And the physical is my stomach rumbling. “Want some food? I’m starving for the second time tonight.”
“When was the first time? At the dog park?”
“No. I was hungry for you, Chloe.”
I can feel her smile rather than see it as she says, “Food is good.”
It’s just food. Just a few more hours with Chloe. That’s all. But I’ll make the most of them since soon enough, they’ll end.
7
DESSERT RIGHTS
CHLOE
“Consider the noble French fry.” I hold up one of the salty snacks in admiration after scooping it up from the plate on the tray between us.
“I’m considering it,” Sawyer says, his tone serious, going along with me.
“Name a more versatile food item.”
He hums, like he’s deep in thought. “A slice of bread?”
I scoff. “Nope. The fry’s both more versatile and tasty.”
“Not sure about that.”
“Sawyer,” I chide, shooting him a withering look. “Just let me tell you about the French fry.”
He slumps back against the cushioned headboard. “Fine, tell me about the fry.”
We’re lounging in bed, dressed in fluffy robes, a nearly finished tray of room service spread out before us. I’ve plowed through the roasted brussels sprouts and the seared cauliflower, and now it’s time for the best part of any meal. “You can dip it in ketchup, pesto, mayo, hot sauce, ranch, barbecue sauce—the list goes on. You can have them loaded. With truffle shavings if you’re bourgeois. In a paper cup at a football game. You can have them as a snack or a side or a meal. Fries go with sandwiches, with eggs, with veggie burgers. They even go with salad. Hence, their versatility.” I pause, to make my point. “But they also pair with ice cream and milkshakes. And chocolate. Ergo, the noble French fry really is the perfect food.”