Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“I don't...” She glanced around the kitchen, knowing full well there were no condoms. She'd been through every shelf and drawer. “Where?”
His eyes closed, and his face twisted in agony. “Check the pockets of my jeans. Hurry.”
Sliding off his leg, she snagged his jeans and found a condom in the front pocket. Did he always keep rubbers on him? Given the relaxed wear of the denim, he'd likely grabbed the jeans from the hamper, stocked with a condom. “Got one.”
He fisted his cock, stroking it, root to tip. His knuckles flexed in his exertion, his eyes burning with silver flames.
Sweet mother, that image hit her right between the legs, sending her inner muscles into a hot spasm. She ripped open the package, rolled on the rubber, and straddled him, his cock a long, stiff invitation against her pussy.
He leaned up, and she met him halfway in a sweeping of lips. He grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her to him as he dropped against the floor. Their tongues tangled, and their hands slid everywhere, bumping and caressing in urgent exploration, kindling her arousal from a low burn to a wildfire.
She shoved her fingers through his hair, her hips working into an electrifying grind against him, each flex hitting her clit against the head of his cock, the smooth hardness of his length sliding between her labium. Fuck, what would he feel like without the rubber in the way?
“Aw God, put me in,” he groaned against her mouth.
The sound of him begging surged heat through her blood. She reached between them with shaky fingers, positioned his cock, and the hard tip pushed through her opening.
His head fell back, and the cords of his neck strained as she slid down his length. He stretched her deliciously as she worked him in, sinking inch by inch, until he was buried to the root. So deep, so full, her needy flesh rippled around him, shooting sparks of pleasure through her body.
She attacked his mouth as she rolled her hips, ravenous and impatient, sucking on his lips, nipping at him. Her fingers found his hair, stroking and pulling as he fucked her. His large hands on her hips held her in place, his thrusts rocking into her in long, powerful strokes.
He was merciless, his muscles flexing beneath her, his balls slapping her ass with every drive of his cock. His hands moved to her breasts and pinched her nipples so hard the sharp pain sent her over, so fast and explosive, she hadn't felt its approach.
The orgasm slammed into her, and she pushed up, back bowing, riding the wave after wave of ecstasy. Her head fell back, mind empty, her body soaring through the tingling sensations.
He let out an unintelligible curse, thrusting hard and fast. His hands dropped to her waist in a bruising grip as his strokes jerked, lost rhythm, and slammed deep inside her. “Unnngh.” His jaw hung open with short, ragged exhales. “Uh...ungh...” He shuddered as he spent his seed, his heavy grunts rumbling into a throaty growl.
The kitchen rotated around them, heaving with the sounds of their heavy breaths. Eternal seconds passed before feeling returned to her fingers and toes.
He looked up at her, his eyes dilated and heavy-lidded. “C'mere.”
She lowered her body, her arms winding around his broad shoulders and his heart pounding against her ear on his chest. He hugged her to him, his cock growing soft inside her.
“Ready to eat?”
She released a sated laugh. “Such a man. Sex and food.”
“Life's two main ingredients.”
After they brushed the crumbs from their bodies and dressed, she sat at the table and watched him scramble eggs and fry bacon. She and food had a hate-hate relationship, so she'd never bothered to learn how to cook. He didn't seem to mind, seeing how he'd told her to sit and rest.
The smell of grease filled her nose and roused her hunger. By the time he brought the plate and two glasses of milk to the table, a rumble had gripped her stomach.
One plate. One fork. He perched before her, his thighs on the outside of hers, lifted a forkful of eggs, and held it to her lips. She accepted willingly, wantonly.
He broke off a piece of bacon. “You didn't look at the mess on the floor while I cooked.”
It wasn't a question. He knew she hadn't. She chewed, swallowed, and opened her mouth for the bacon bite. When her lips wrapped around his fingers, he drew them out slowly and stroked a knuckle across her cheek.
“What does the anxiety feel like?” he asked, softly.
She sipped the milk to clear her throat. “When it's bad, I don't have control of my body. It feels like something huge and chaotic is wearing my skin, thrashing around in it, stretching it, and I'm stuck in there with it, helpless.”