Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 22700 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 114(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22700 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 114(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
It’s me.
And the hero is Rhett, looming over me, his jaw sharp, his cheekbones chiseled, his voice gravelly and strong. “If I teach you, it won’t be like my tennis lessons. I won’t be able to take things slow with you. There won’t be any beginner lessons. We’ll jump right into the advanced classes.”
I close my eyes and let his words sink into me.
“You’re mine,” he growled, slamming the door behind him as he walked toward her, his eyes flaming with desire. “Say it to me.”
“I’m yours,” she whimpered, scared but also elated by the pure lust in his gaze.
Slowly, my hand begins to drift beneath the covers, as if moving on its own. Without me even thinking of it.
It’s not something I’ve ever done before–not really. I’ve never really known just what to do or had any real reason to do it.
But now my body is on fire. A slow and steady ache is building between my thighs as I imagine Rhett’s rough, skilled hands on my body, his mouth on my neck, his tender breath against my skin. I think back to how he kissed me, as if he was going to lose his mind if I didn’t kiss him back.
My fingers move lower, beneath the hem of my panties.
My breath catches as I feel how wet I already am. I move even lower, imagining my fingers are Rhett’s as he whispers in my ear, “I’ll show you, baby. I’ll teach you.” And then the hesitation disappears, overtaken by a rush of desire that lights my whole body on fire.
Goosebumps spread across my limbs, and my legs begin to tingle as I touch myself. My back arches off the bed and my hips sway, moving like they themselves know just what to do, even if my brain does not. I picture him on top of me–his weight, his warmth, his pressure, the growl in his throat as he fills my ears with talk like from one of my books.
A gasp slips from my lips as my core grows hotter. I have no idea what I’m doing, but I like it. I don’t stop. I can’t stop. Not when Rhett is filling my mind.
My thighs tighten. My toes curl until my feet start to cramp. I picture his eyes locked on mine, like a hero from a romance novel, heavy with hunger and desire. His callused, skilled fingers slide down my stomach and under the waistband of my pajamas, down under my panties.
“Just like this,” he’d say to me. “Touch yourself like this, Cassandra. You only have a few more seconds before I take over.”
“I want you to,” I say out loud, my voice quivering.
And that’s when it happens.
I go off.
An explosion of heat bursts through my body. My back bows off the mattress, and my limbs go stiff as my thighs clamp down on my hand. My breath seizes in my chest as my jaw hangs open, but all sound remains trapped in my throat. My belly clenches, and I snatch the sheets like they’re the only thing anchoring me to the ground.
Finally, I come down. And when I do, I feel…different.
It’s like I’m awake–like my eyes are open. The whole world feels more raw, more primal. That was my first, but it was assisted by Rhett. And now that I’ve experienced that, I am desperate for the real thing.
I need him, and I need him badly. So badly that tears begin to gather in my eyes. I try to blink them away, but they fall down my cheeks, forcing me to wipe them away with the back of my hand.
Tears of joy cause me to giggle as I slip beneath the sheets, shaken and thrilled all at the same time.
I close the book and press it to my chest, which is thumping heavily with the strong rhythm of my heart. And then, I make myself a promise.
Tomorrow, even if Rhett doesn’t show up, I’m going to find him. If he won’t come to me, I’ll go to him.
I’m not a child anymore. I’m a woman, and I’m ready to learn. And there’s only one man on this earth who can teach me.
6
RHETT
I haven’t slept. I haven’t eaten. I haven’t worked out. I feel like a soggy pancake sitting on a plate, slowly falling to pieces. The sun is already climbing up again as I stare out the window. I don’t even think I’ve blinked in the last half-hour.
My apartment is quiet. Too quiet. Only sporadic sounds of creaking wood or my own slow breaths distract me from her voice running around in my head.
“What do men want in a wife?”
Jesus Christ.
I drag my hand across my jaw, feeling two days’ worth of stubble scrape my palm as I get to my feet and pace into the living room. The space is spartan, minimal. I have a couch, a coffee table, a television, and a treadmill in the corner. It’s always been fine. I’ve never needed anything more.