Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
“You wait for me,” he commanded. “I’ve got you.”
He wrapped his hand around mine, and that was it for me. I saw stars and white light, and I was coming and coming. I collapsed and he fell on top of me, his hips pistoning double time, then roaring like a wild animal as he filled the condom.
I wasn’t quite myself afterward. I couldn’t move, speak, or think rationally. I figured the haze would clear eventually. Maybe.
Viggo stirred first. I felt the mattress shift, heard footsteps, and saw the light from the bathroom, but I didn’t budge till he returned with a warm washcloth.
“Are you sore?”
“Dunno. I can’t feel anything,” I said into the pillow as he gently tended to me. “Actually, I feel like a jellyfish. Thanks for…you don’t have to do that.”
He splayed a hand on my ass and squeezed. “I want to. That was rough. I don’t want to hurt you.”
I noted the telltale trace of an accent and was charmed. I rolled onto my side, motioning for him to lie beside me. “I’m fine. Better than ever.”
“Good. Me too.” Viggo pulled the duvet over us. “Don’t worry. I’ll go soon.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to assure him that he could stay all night, but I didn’t trust my voice. So I snuggled closer, rested my head on Viggo’s chest, and fell fast asleep.
CHAPTER 17
VIGGO
Soft snoring woke me before the alarm rang. I glanced at the man glued to my chest, his lips parted and hair disheveled. There was nothing sexy about bedhead and drool…unless it was Dexter.
Shit. This was not smart.
Two weeks of clandestine meetings, trading houses, slipping into bed and fucking like bunnies till we passed out wasn’t sustainable behavior. I’d hoped we’d have gotten this physical yearning out of our systems by now, but it wasn’t looking good. I wanted him a little bit more every day.
Maybe the secrecy was a turn-on. But so was lighthearted conversation and the thrill of carnal exploration with zero expectation. This was a sex-only arrangement with an incredibly handsome man. Only a fool would walk away.
The evening usually began with a simple text stating a time and place to meet.
Yesterday from Dexter: My place, 9?
I’d replied with a thumbs-up and at nine p.m., I’d parked on the opposite end of his street to avoid spreading rumors. Seconds after I’d knocked on his door, he’d pulled me inside and attacked me. Not an exaggeration. He might as well have been a monkey climbing a tree.
We’d made it as far as the great room, humping and grinding on Dexter’s enormous sectional. But soon, clothes had been shed, and there’d been no chance of slowing down or moving upstairs. So I’d bent him over the sofa and fucked him. The room had echoed with soft moans, grunts, and the steady slap of skin on skin. I’d pulled his hair and gestured at our reflection in the sliding glass door. Dexter’s ass in the air, my hands on his hips, my cock driving into his hole—it had been a good show.
Afterward, we’d cleaned up and sprawled out in front of the television, passing a pint of chocolate ice cream between us and chatting about inconsequential things like the accuracy of medical dramas and the time he’d fallen off a horse at summer camp, hit his head, and needed stitches.
“Blood everywhere. Kids were screaming, running amok, and the poor counselors were teenagers with minimal experience with bloody wounds.”
I’d motioned for him to pass the container. “What did they do?”
“One of them drove me to the hospital and waited with me to see the doctor. I had to stay for concussion protocol. My first of many. It made for a long-ass day for that poor counselor. He tried to call my mom, and of course she was in a meeting.” Dexter had pointed to a small scar at his temple. “But ten stitches later, I was back on a horse the next day.”
I’d nodded, but before I could ask any probing questions about his mother or his history with concussions, Dexter had moved on to the healing properties of chocolate.
I had a funny realization that behind the good-natured chatter and easy mannerisms, Dexter was a complex man who talked around topics that bothered him. And the fact that he wasn’t in a hurry to get rid of me or to leave my house post-orgasm was telling, too. I didn’t think it was my winning personality. No…my guess was that Dexter was lonely. I wondered if he hoped a child would cure the condition.
But then he was straddling my lap, feeding me ice cream from his spoon, and sharing chocolate kisses. And that was more important than the psychoanalysis he most likely wouldn’t appreciate.
We’d made our way upstairs for round two, showered, and fell asleep.