Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 125852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
I do.
Closing my eyes, I try to hide the way I’m breathing, but it’s hard when it’s stuttering and fast.
It takes an embarrassingly long time, but I manage to calm my heart rate back to a reasonable level, and I no longer feel his harsh exhales in my hair either.
Natural reactions, that’s all.
I’m lying so stiffly, so I try to stretch a little, shimmying back, but Brady’s hold on my hip turns to steel, pinning me in place.
“Don’t,” he rasps. “Stay right there.”
My pulse thumps, so easy to read between the lines—I can’t scoot back because if I do, I’ll feel him.
I’ll feel him because he’s hard.
I swallow, shifting, but this time so I’m lying on my belly, and slowly, he lets me go, his arm sliding beneath my pillow.
We lie there for several long minutes, and finally, sleep starts to set in again.
“Thank you for coming over, Brady.”
“Don’t thank me for taking care of you.”
I smile to myself, finding his hand under the pillow and pressing mine against it. “You’re really good at it.”
“Good. Then you know what you should expect from a man,” he says quietly. “If he’s anything less than that, he doesn’t deserve you. He’s not worth calling yours.”
Something stirs in my chest, and I welcome the warmth it brings. Eyes closing as I burrow deeper into the pillow. “Good thing I already have a boyfriend, then, huh?”
“Fake boyfriend, Cammie Baby,” he murmurs. “Make sure you demand the same from the real one.”
I try to turn over to face him, something inside me driven with the need to see the expression on his face in this moment, but his arm comes around me again, holding me still.
“Sleep,” he whispers.
I try. I really, really do, but it’s not working.
I have no idea how long it takes, but his breathing grows deeper, and a wave of gratitude hits me.
This man had to be exhausted from two days of travel and a hard-played game, yet he still came here to make sure I was okay.
He’s always there. So attentive.
So responsive.
Cameron. Stop. Jesus.
Brady is asleep, but sleep is the furthest thing from my mind.
I’m overheating and losing the battle with my willpower—or lack thereof.
My eyes stay shut, but my mind is in marathon mode and shows no sign of slowing down. It’s full force ahead with no finish line in sight.
I have no idea how much time passes, but his every exhale rolls over my skin. It’s warm and enticing, a tingling sensation that starts at the nape of my neck and prickles its way down.
Suddenly, I’m not just warm and cozy.
I’m hot all over, and this time, it has nothing to do with a fucking fever.
My body, it’s aching, my pussy begging to be put out of her misery, the need his mouth created doubling down with the feel of his bare legs tangled with mine.
God, what would he say if he knew? What the hell is wrong with me?
This is Brady!
My Brady.
Maybe it’s not about him exactly but more my body’s natural reaction to being touched. To be fair, it has been a while.
My eyes flick open at the thought.
Oh my god. It’s been a hot minute for me, yeah, but I’ve gone months without sex, and it was no big thing, but Brady?
This must feel like a lifetime to him. It has to be some sort of record for my insatiable friend.
I wonder if he fucks his hand often.
Aaand now I’m thinking about him stroking himself, taking his thick dick in his massive hand and tugging the way he likes. I bet he’s a firm-grip kind of guy. The kind who likes you to take him by the balls and squeeze while you bite at the tip—when giving head, I mean. I’ve got a long neck, so my head game is strong.
I wonder if I could take all of him.
OMG, off track. Stop thinking about deep throating the man who knows you used to piss your pants as a little girl.
I close my eyes again, letting out a long, controlled sigh in an attempt to send a wave through my brain that will wash the images flashing around away.
It doesn’t help, and I drift back to thoughts of him pleasuring himself.
I guarantee he takes himself hard and fast but probably stops right before he’s about to come, waiting for the burning to ease before starting all over again. Yeah, he’s definitely that sweet, sweet torture type. The kill-me-softly sort of man.
I wonder if he’s a cucumber or an eggplant. Straight and solid or curved and firm.
I bet he sounds like a wild animal when he comes, all throaty and chest deep and… God, my god, Cameron, what the hell!
Stop it.
Except I can’t.
I can fucking see it, and when I close my eyes this time, the images only become more vivid. Brady with his head thrown back, that plump, plush lip—the color you get when you’ve been eating pomegranate seeds—between his teeth. Eyes screwed shut tightly and muscles clamping, every inch of his body primed and prepped for release. And right before he comes, his long-lashed eyes flick open, buttery-brown gaze locking on mine.