Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 128417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Holy Exploding Heart, Batman. Not To Mention Ovaries. I know Josh was merely following the loose script I babbled to him in Las Vegas, but he delivered his lines with such breathtaking sincerity, my heart seems to have lost its ability to discern fantasy from reality.
“Hang on,” he says. He gets up and walks behind the bed, outside of my field of vision. I strain against my bindings. What’s he doing? He’s supposed to untie me now and ravage me as a free woman.
A song begins playing over the sound system and my heart stops. Holy shitballs. He’s cued up “If You Ever Want To Be In Love” by James Bay—the song that made Josh literally bolt out of his bedroom when it came on last night. Oh my effing God.
Josh returns to the bed. His clothes are off and his hard-on is massive. He sits on the edge of the bed, gazing at me with smoldering eyes, and slowly begins untying me.
Holy shitballs.
The minute I’m free, he pulls my nightie and underwear off my body and guides me onto his lap and straight onto his erection. I take him into me and wrap my thighs around his waist, throw my arms around his neck, and ride him feverishly, spurred on by the song—and especially what it means that he’s decided to play it for me in this magical moment.
“Don’t leave me,” Josh whispers, cradling me in his arms, fucking me, caressing me, kissing my face.
I’m lost in him. I gyrate my hips on top of him and smash my breasts against his muscled chest, desperately trying to press my beating heart against his.
“Josh,” I breathe. I can barely push air into my lungs. I’m gasping for air, suddenly overcome by a surge of energy coursing between us.
I want him. I need him. I love him.
“Don’t go,” he says. “Stay with me.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I breathe. “Oh, Josh. I’m all yours.”
31
KAT
For the past kajillion hours, Josh and I have been sitting on his black leather couch, smoking weed and listening to the Black Keys (the current song is “Tighten Up”) and semi-watching our favorite scenes from our favorite movies (on mute)—Twenty-One Jump Street, Zoolander, Happy Gilmore, Anchorman, Harold and Kumar, This is the End, and selected episodes of Parks & Recreation, too. And while we’ve availed ourselves of the aforementioned samplings of musical and comedic genius, Josh and I have also been voraciously gobbling down every single morsel of the gourmet, healthy meals supplied by Josh’s ever-so-thoughtful and fitness-conscious brother.
Oh, and perhaps I should mention we’ve done all of the above-mentioned activities in our birthday suits.
Oh, and perhaps I should also mention “eating” Jonas’ gourmet, healthy meals has actually entailed licking, nibbling, and slurping food off each other’s stomachs and thighs, and out of each other’s belly buttons, and, yes, okay, if you really must know, off of (or out of) each other’s most sensitive places.
I take a long drag on the joint Josh offers me and blow the smoke into his face in a steady, controlled stream. Man, I’m stoned. Stoned out of my mind. Fred-Flintstoned. Emma Stoned. Sharon Stoned. Rolling Stoned. Sly Stalloned. Oh, wait, no. That last one doesn’t really work. I think I meant Sly and the Family Stoned? Wasn’t that the funk band Josh introduced me to yesterday in the sex dungeon? Well, in any event, let’s just say tonight I’ve definitely become a naturalized citizen of the peaceful and munchie-eating land of Estonia. I burst out laughing.
“What?” Josh asks, his eyes glazed over.
“I dunno. It was funny, though.”
“God, you’re beautiful,” Josh coos, obviously feeling rather Oliver Stoned himself. “I could look at your gorgeous face forever.” He leans forward, grabs my face, and kisses me deeply.
“You said forever,” I say into his lips, smiling.
“What?”
“I didn’t know your mouth was capable of uttering that word.”
“You must have misheard me. I don’t even know that strange word. What I actually said was, ‘Florebblaaaah.’”
I roll my eyes.
Josh flashes me a goofy grin. “Aw, come on, baby. My douchebaggery is my charm.”
“Mmm hmm.”
He sighs audibly. “Oh, Kat, Kat, gorgeous Kat. Are you gonna wait for me or not, Gorgeous, Stubborn Kat?”
“Hmm? Sure, I’ll wait.” I grab the remote control and pause the movie, freezing Michael Cera grabbing Rihanna’s ass in This Is the End. “Go ahead.” I motion toward the bathroom.
“No, no. I don’t mean wait for me to go to the bathroom. I wanna know if you’re gonna wait for me?”
I stare at him for a long beat. “You mean florebblaaahhhhhh?”
He doesn’t reply.
“Dude, what are you talking about?”
He bristles. “Never mind.” He grabs a bottle of Patron from the floor next to him and takes a swig.
My stomach twists. How does this man make me feel so freaking good and so flippin’ insecure all at the same time? Last night in the sex dungeon, after he’d untied me, Josh made love to me so passionately, so urgently, I felt that crazy electricity coursing between us again—that same supernatural electricity as the prior night in Josh’s bed—and I thought my heart was gonna burst with joy. But, afterwards, did we talk about what we were both so obviously feeling toward each other? Nooooope. Of course not. Because, it seems, talking about our ‘fucking feelings’ is off limits with Joshua William Faraday.