Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
There’s a turnoff to the right, a discreet alcove with a brass plaque reading “Powder Room.” I’m halfway there when I hear it: a noise too wet, too animal, to be a malfunctioning faucet. I freeze, ears sharpened, and listen. The sound comes again—a high, keening gasp, cut off by a sharp impact. Flesh against flesh, then a laugh, then a string of syllables that dissolve into another moan.
My whole body goes hot. I should keep walking. I shouldn’t stop, not now. But I do.
The source is obvious: a door, cracked open, spilling a wedge of amber light across the marble. I drift toward it, each step slower than the last. My skin prickles with anticipation or dread, I can’t tell which. When I reach the threshold, I stop and peer in, careful as a cat.
The room is small—just a private lounge, probably meant for the wedding party to catch their breath or powder their noses. There’s a velvet settee the color of dried blood, a low glass table littered with discarded napkins and a bottle of something brown and expensive, and a mirror above the fireplace that glitters like an invitation. On the far wall, just past the gilded frame, is Trevor.
He’s disheveled now, his dark suit jacket tossed carelessly over a chair, his white dress shirt hanging open and askew, one cuff still fastened around his wrist. He looks even taller like this, all heavy muscle and predatory focus. Cassie is braced facing the wall, hair wild and eyes closed, her mouth open in a soundless scream. Her dress—red, criminally short—has been rucked up around her waist, exposing hips so narrow and legs so long they don’t seem real.
Her panties are a wisp of nothing, pushed down just enough to bare her ass. Trevor is behind her, his hand fisted in the platinum mass of her hair, the other on her hip. He’s fucking her, hard, relentless, driving her up onto her toes with each stroke.
My breath catches. I don’t move.
They move in perfect sync, a violence that’s almost beautiful. Cassie’s breasts—enormous, surgically perfect—bounce with each thrust, the nipples dark and stiff. Her makeup is smeared. Trevor’s eyes are fixed on her reflection in the mirror, and for a moment, I see what he sees: Cassie’s mouth parted, her tongue flicking the corner of her lips, the flush crawling up her chest as he pounds into her from behind.
“Fuck, Nate, yes, just like that,” she gasps. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t—”
Nate? I blink. Who’s Nate? For one insane moment I imagine I’ve walked into the wrong scene, that this is just some lookalike, some dark twin of Trevor’s, but then he leans down and bites her shoulder—gentle, almost teasing—and I see the exact same mischievous glint in his eye that I saw in the ballroom, a minute or a lifetime ago.
He’s still Trevor. Only more so. Raw, concentrated, all the polish and pretense boiled away.
Even more, he heard her say the wrong name, and doesn’t give a fuck. What the hell is wrong with my stepbrother? Most dudes would be offended, but evidently my stepbrother is so confident and asshole-ish that he doesn’t even care. He just wants to bury his dick in a piece of wet pussy, and right now, he’s getting it to the max, so why stress?
Plus, his date must be a porn star because she’s screaming loud and unashamed. She calls him Nate again, then moans it like a prayer, louder and louder. Trevor doesn’t slow down. His fingers flex on her hip, leaving white marks that will purple by morning. His pace is brutal, almost mechanical. The sounds are obscene—wet, slapping, a sharp counterpoint to the music still drifting from the main hall. I can’t stop staring.
“Ooooh,” she squeals, big breasts shaking. “Fuck me, fuck me!”
“Will do, sweetheart,” my stepbrother rasps. “Fuck fuck fuck!”
At first I watch Cassie because she’s impossible not to watch with those big bouncy breasts and succulently wet pussy. But then, I watch Trevor instead, every inch of him. The way his jaw tenses, the lines of his back, the raw power in his legs as he drives up into her, over and over. I look at his hand, so big and possessive, splayed over the sharp point of Cassie’s hip. I look at his mouth, open in a snarl or a moan, I can’t tell which.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Shit shit shit, you’re such a perfect cockholster, Cass.”
Then, I look lower, and I see it—his cock, impossibly thick, so much larger than I’d ever let myself imagine, glistening as it pistons in and out of the girl’s body. It is a monstrous thing, slick and veined, and for one horrified second I want to measure myself against Cassie, to see how my pussy would look wrapped around him, impaled by him.