Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 57779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
She grinds her ass against me, taking me even deeper, before adding a teasing squeeze to every thrust.
I drive into her so fast the headboard no longer bangs against the wall. It bunny-hops away from it, the strength of my thrusts no match for the titanium-plated steel holding it together.
The bed’s legs wobble as intensely as Miranda’s thighs when she notices its sways. Her worry that the bed is about to fall into a heap beneath us doesn’t weaken the intensity of our exchange, though.
We fuck wildly. Crazily.
We move in sync like we’ve been dancing this madly passionate tango for years.
Then, just as the mattress crashes to the floor, Miranda comes again.
“Fuck,” I bite out, my balls throbbing as I try to stave off doing the same.
I lose the battle when Miranda shouts my name for the second time.
As I still my hips, I flare my nostrils, drinking in her scent, while my release pumps inside her in raring spurts.
9
MIRANDA
Sweet lord, he did it.
He dismantled the bed I’ve been endeavoring to disassemble since I returned from the hotel.
I am too tired to add the frame to the fire I’ve kept stocked for the past three days, and the mattress to the charity collection pile.
I’m so zonked I could sleep for a week.
My eyes slowly flutter closed as I sink into the mattress I’ll replace first thing tomorrow morning.
They don’t remain shut for long. Nero’s slow slip as he removes his still-firm cock from my pussy has my libido awakening as if I haven’t orgasmed more times today than I have in the past three years.
The wetness coating his impressive manhood adds more slickness to the mess between my legs and heats my cheeks with more than lust.
We forgot to use protection. Again.
“I’m still on birth control.” Nerves shudder my vocal cords. I hate the thought of him thinking I stayed on birth control because I plan to stay with my cheating husband.
My religious pill taking has nothing to do with Roy. My lust-craving heart was hopeful what we just did was a possibility. That maybe the flames our exchange combusted into in the hotel would one day reach my home base.
My head told my heart it was living in a fantasy world.
It’ll be quick to apologize once it is at full function.
It will need more than a handful of wheezy breaths, though. My head is stuck in a fog it has no plans of escaping anytime in the next six to eight hours.
“Are you leaving?” I ask, hearing a ruffle, my voice still groggy.
A near-comatose state isn’t to blame for my sluggishness. The fear of rejection means even something as simple as getting my eyes to follow the prompts of my brain takes almost ten seconds to initiate.
I don’t want to watch Nero’s departure. My psyche, though better than it was only days ago, is still a little fragile. It may break if it thinks I’m being rejected by the only man who has ever shown legitimate interest.
Relief washes over me when Nero replies, “No.”
He continues for the open plantation shutters on the far side of the room. They face the road, but since we’re on the second story and the house across the street is vacant, I don’t bother closing them.
“But you should keep your blinds closed. You never know who may be looking in.”
I wet my bone-dry mouth before cracking my lips for a smile. “The house across the street has been vacant for almost a year. Roy said some rich schmuck bought it with the plan to flip it once the market improves.”
Air whizzes from Nero’s nose as he tugs the shutters shut, and then he slowly creeps back to the mattress now flopped on the floor.
I assume he is going to slip beneath the sticky sheets, so you can picture my surprise when he peels me off the material clinging to my skin and tosses me over his shoulder.
I’m naked, exhausted, and somewhat hungry, but I refuse to tell Nero that.
I’ve never been carried like I’m a damsel in distress or an up-and-coming mafia wife.
I’m also obsessed by the ease of his lift and the way it reminds me of my femininity. I grew up believing I’d be the caretaker of my home and that I’d blush every time I caught the admiring stare of my husband across the room. We’d make love against the railing of the water tower in my hometown after I was carried up its stairs without a bead of sweat dotting my husband’s brow.
I never considered the only time I’d sweat after marriage would be while wrangling a lawn trimmer into submission, or from trying to burn off the calories I consume in excess, because I eat when depressed, on rusty gym equipment in the garage of a home not in my name.