Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
She kisses me back just as eagerly, scrambling for my hands and setting them at her waist. I help hoist her up onto the counter when she tries to climb me. After I give her a boost, she gets up with ease. She straddles me, parting her lovely legs in the ripped-up black skinny jeans. Do I love that she’s wearing a velvet shirt to make pies? Yes. Do I love that it has a tiny bow and black lace right at the neckline? Also yes. And red chains hanging from the belt loops of her jeans with little hearts on them? Yes, yes, and yes.
She’s not just charming because she sees the world so differently from anyone else. She has great style, and she’s an artist, in a way, even if she says she works at a soul-sucking job.
“Did you have to cancel work to be here?” I ask, only now thinking just how ridiculously presumptuous it was to invite someone to my house in the middle of the day, disregarding their schedule completely.
“I work remotely from home. I can get it done at any time.”
“Ahh. The advantage of the internet.”
She nods. “That’s right.”
I lose whatever it was I was going to say next when she grasps my shirt by the lapels and tugs me to her. She practically bruises my mouth with her eager kisses. She’s an artist in that way too. She makes me feel beautiful and desired, sexy and wanted. When she’s kissing me, my glaring imperfections don’t feel so imperfect.
She wriggles on my lap and grinds her hips against my erection. I let out a hiss of half pain, half pleasure. It’s been a good long while since the accident, and no one has touched me in anything other than a medical way since then. Even my parents—before they leave here—hug me goodbye like they’re afraid I might shatter.
Honestly, for a good long while after the accident, I couldn’t bring myself to even touch myself. I purposely killed any and all sexual feelings I might have had. It seemed utterly pointless to give myself pleasure when I knew what I looked like.
That thinking might not have been correct, and it might even have been harsh and harmful, but it’s just me being honest, and if I can’t be that, then what am I?
I thought about Callie all night. Her eyes. Her soft smile. Her laughter and the way it made her dark eyes dance. Her charm. And the way she seemed to so effortlessly give the world a big middle finger. I’ve pretty much been hard since dinner.
With Callie grinding herself along my length while punishing my mouth in the sweetest way, and her hands starting to unbutton my shirt, it’s enough to make shivers rake up and down my spine, to cause my balls to draw up, and to make me want to come, here and now.
I didn’t see myself ever having this with anyone again. Logically, but also, I never let myself even go there in my head as a hypothetical scenario, because it’s just torture. It’s like offering a thirsty man a drink and then taking it away and dumping it all over the ground in front of him with a cruel smirk. Life was that smirk.
To say I’m not absolutely terrified right now would be a lie.
I’m petrified that I’ll embarrass myself and come before she even takes me out of my pants. I’m also terrified that I won’t, and we’ll do this, and it will be incredible.
And then she’ll leave, and I’ll never see her again.
Or maybe she won’t leave, and she’ll see who I really am, all the good and the bad and the less than glamorous. Vulnerability might be even worse than loneliness.
She jerks the rest of the buttons on my shirt open and yanks it out of my pants. I try to help her, but she knocks my hands away, slips my suspenders off my shoulders, frees one arm and then the other, and tugs the shirt out and away before righting those straps and giving them a good snap against my bare skin. I hiss, but so does she. Her tongue peeks out to wet her lips.
“Oh my god, I had fantasies about this. About what you’d look like with no shirt on but with the suspenders still in place. And the answer is hot. Incredibly hot.”
“Are you sure?” I reach for my shirt, but she pushes it onto the floor.
“Am I sure that you look fucking gorgeous? Yes. All that working out has done wonders,” she says appreciatively.
“Are you sure about this?” I ask.
She grasps the button on my pants and pops it open, nodding in concentration before sliding my zipper down.
“I can think of a thousand reasons and probably a thousand more as to why this isn’t a good idea.”