Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
“Blue, God, yes. Yes!” She reaches the peak as an especially large wave slams into the shore, sending reverberations through the tightly packed sand beneath the blanket.
I’m already feeling pretty fucking proud of myself when Bea cups my face in her hands, beaming down at me with bright eyes as she murmurs, “Good boy.”
The words go straight to my dick, making my hips jerk forward, seeking friction against the blanket and the cold sand beneath. Thank God, the sand is cold, or I’d be coming in my pants right now. That’s what she does to me when she talks like that, and she knows it, a point she proves by giggling as she watches me fight for control.
“Don’t,” I warn, coming onto my knees and reaching for the close of my pants. My pulse spikes at the sight of her spread out on the blanket—skirt hiked up, no panties, the top three buttons on her dress open, revealing one perfect, peach-tipped breast.
She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, even when she’s using her power over me for evil.
“Sorry.” She bites her bottom lip, but it does nothing to conceal the grin spreading across her face.
“You’re not sorry.” I shove my pants and boxers down far enough to free my suffering cock. “You like driving me crazy.”
“I like how much you like being good for me,” she corrects, gaze darkening as I lengthen myself on top of her. Her arms loop around my neck, holding me close as she whispers against my lips, “And I love how hard you fuck me when you know you’re about to lose it. So be my good boy, Blue, and fuck me hard. Please?”
The head of my cock is at her entrance, the slick heat of her kissing my fevered skin, promising something so much better than relief.
Promising the bliss of being so close to her, the only woman I ever—
Iwake with a start, flinching hard enough to send my sleep-limp arm knocking against the wall.
For a moment, I’m caught between worlds, between reality and the beach, where Dream Beatrice was teaching me new things about what my brain likes during sex.
Kind of like she did last night on the couch.
I’d never imagined being praised like that would be so hot, but fuck…
I am not a boy and not overly concerned with being good. I’m also a few years older than Bea, not to mention twice her size. She has to push on up on tiptoe to reach my chest. But that tiny woman is a powerhouse in the bedroom, and not the least bit shy about giving orders or praise.
And I like it.
I like it so much that I’m waking up hard from a “good boy” sex dream.
That’s new, and unexpected enough to get my morning off on a weird foot, even if someone wasn’t currently shouting in the other room.
That’s what must have woken me, I realize as the shouts start again.
It sounds like a man and a woman. Not necessarily angry, but frustrated and loud. So insanely loud. They’re going to wake the dead if they keep at it. Or, at the very least, Clover and Beatrice, who need their rest.
And why the hell do they sound like they’re in the apartment?
They must be brawling right outside the door.
I surge into a seated position, only to flop back against the mattress as it sags beneath me. It’s lost at least half the air overnight, leaving me hovering just above the hardwood, cocooned in rubber and a twisted top sheet. I brace my hands on either side of my hips and push, trying to get leverage, but that only makes the air still left inside balloon under my legs, making it even harder to get up.
As the shouts come again, I roll onto my stomach, cursing as my knees grind into the floor. It doesn’t feel good, not by a long shot, but at least I’m able to swing my feet over and scramble out of my sagging bed.
I grab my jeans from the chair, yank them on, and charge into the hall.
I head for the front door, anticipating an encounter with some cranky neighbors who don’t have the sense to take a fight behind closed doors, only to stop dead when I see Beatrice is already up.
And clearly in distress.
She’s perched in one of the taller chairs at the kitchen island in pajama pants and a black t-shirt that molds to her belly, the messy bun on her head flopping back and forth as she makes shooshing noises to the open laptop in front of her.
“Please, guys,” she says in a whisper-shout, clearly trying to get through to whoever’s on the screen. “You’re being so loud! Please, can you just—”
“I’m not raising my voice,” a very raised male voice insists. “This is my normal, everyday voice. At least it is when I just found out my daughter was nearly killed from TikTok. I don’t even have TikTok. I had to download an app and create an account to find out what Aunt Cindy was trying to show me about my own daughter.”