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)
I’m meant to be fucking her confidence to a record-breaking high, not making her bedridden.
Though the thought of her helpless and in bed for a week sounds mighty enticing right now. Miranda’s pussy tastes like heaven. It’s a meal I could eat day in and day out until the day I die, and I’d never complain.
Only a fool would grow tired of perfection.
As I drag a hand across my beard, making sure the wiry strands covering my jaw absorb her scent, I rake my eyes down Miranda’s body.
We were so impatient I’m shocked the only article of clothing left on are my trousers, which are huddled around my ankles.
Other than that, we’re stark naked, and the view is fucking enticing.
She’s so damn beautiful. Her cheeks are flushed, her nipples are standing to attention, and although her pussy lips are red and chafed from my beard sanding the sensitive skin, they’re drizzling with evidence of multiple arousals and make me hard as fuck.
The need to fuck claws at me. I want to take her hard and fast like when she was splayed over her kitchen counter, being pounded so ruefully her tits and ass clapped in euphoria. But for now, I can’t. Miranda needs to see what she does to me. She needs to feel it.
She also needs to get that dweeb out of her head, and I know exactly how to encourage that.
I roll my thumb over her clit, keeping it as firm as my cock, while hooking my ankle around the leg of a chair beneath a nook at the side of the kitchen and dragging it in front of me.
Miranda’s house has an old-school design, with part of the kitchen counter lowered to include a writing nook, but the fixtures and furniture are modern—excluding the piece I’ve selected.
Miranda watches me under hooded lids when I take a seat before notching up my chin, inviting her to join me.
She seems excited—for half a second.
“I’m not sure that chair was designed for two.”
My voice is full of lust when I ask, “Afraid it’ll break?”
When she nods, a smile stretches across my face.
She isn’t distraught at the thought of her furniture being broken.
She’s excited.
I learn why when she says, “That’s Roy’s favorite chair. He inherited it from his mother. She isn’t dead. She just knows how much I hate that chair. I can’t believe I missed it during my purge of his belongings.”
I already knew Mrs. Martin is a steaming pile of shit—you can’t raise a turd, shove a stick up its ass, and then call it a corn dog—but the disgust in Miranda’s eyes exposes I still have a lot to learn about the Martins.
I’ll start with his mother, once I’ve broken her god-ugly chair.
16
MIRANDA
When I throw the broken remains of my once-mother-in-law’s chair into the trash can the garbage collection unit recently emptied, Nero’s eyes stray to the firepit I’ve kept well-lit for the past week.
His eyes glow with as much enthusiasm now as they have with lust the past twenty-four hours when I say, “A proper burial seems too good for any belongings of that woman.”
There’s no deceit in my tone, no treachery, so Nero accepts my reply as if it is gospel before he holds out his hand in offering.
I can’t recall the exact time he suggested we take a ride on his motorcycle, but since it was sometime between orgasm five and eleven, I stupidly agreed.
Cut me some slack. I’ve been riding the high of ecstasy for three days straight.
No one has smarts after one orgasm, let alone multiple.
While admiring the sexy curves of his pride and joy, I ask, “Are you sure you don’t want to take my car? It’s chilly out.”
I’m such a liar, and Nero knows this. With an arched brow and a furled top lip, he curls his tattooed fingers around my wrist and tugs me forward until I either hook my leg over his bike or flop over the seat like I’m about to be spanked.
The idea of being spanked by Nero isn’t unappealing, but since I’m just as curious to discover where he’s taking me under the guise of a late-night ride, I slip onto the seat instead of lying across it, and then I curl my arms around his waist.
Nero’s bike is as sexy as his face. It is dark, dangerous, and brooding. The rumbles of its engine when he kicks it over add to the throbs my pussy has been rarely without for the past week.
I nod like I’m not being eyeballed by a neighbor when Nero asks if I’m ready to go. Then I squeal. Nero’s bike has a lot of power. It thrusts me back and reminds me that with the right amount of willpower, even the biggest obstacles can be pushed aside.
Take my marital status as an example.