Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 121210 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121210 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
“Clay,” I whisper with all the breath I have left, and he pauses with pressure and sinks into a groan.
“God, baby. My finger on your pussy and my name on your lips might just be the best combination to ever live.”
I would laugh if I weren’t so eager. Instead, my words come out like a beg. “I don’t know, I’m pretty sure it’d be even better with your cock.”
“Fuck,” he damn near groans, pulling his hand from my pants enough to free himself from his own. I glance down at how hard he is in his hand and breathe both a sigh of relief and trepidation.
He’s big. Possibly the biggest I’ve ever seen, and it’s not like I’ve spent the last several years with micropenises.
I need to feel him to know for sure, but I’ve got a sneaking suspicion he’s going to make me feel fuller than I’ve ever felt before.
“Please,” I ask as he digs around in the back pocket of his jeans and comes out with a condom. Tearing the wrapper with his teeth, he sheathes himself quickly and efficiently before covering me again and pressing himself in gently but completely.
There’s nothing left outside, just the base of him against my flesh, and I have to close my eyes against the most overwhelming feeling that this moment is going to be one I look back on and dream about.
“Damn, Josie Ellis. You feel just as pretty inside as you look outside, and I can promise you, that’s saying something.”
“Clay,” I whimper.
“I want to make you feel so good,” he tells me. “I want to make you feel so fucking good you go crazy, you understand me?”
I nod, desperate for him to move, my eyes latched on to where we’re connected. “Clay, please.”
“I want to make you come so hard you see stars—and not just the ones in the sky. I want you to feel me in your throat and your toes and everywhere in between.”
“Clay. Please, I’m begging you, move.”
His stroke is slow but strong, and my head falls back to the soft pad of his T-shirt.
“No, doll,” he says. “I don’t think I’m moving fucking anywhere.” He’s playing with my words, making them out to be something more than they are, and yet, I can’t find it in myself to stop him.
Because being up here on this water tower with Clay Harris feels like something akin to flying in the sky, and I’m not sure I ever want to be anywhere else either.
I hold on tight as he moves in and out of me, digging my fingertips into the bare skin of his shoulders as he bows his face into my neck and groans.
“Fuck, Josie, you feel unreal.”
My heart pounds as my climax approaches, and I dig my teeth into the soft skin of his shoulder to control the volume of my scream. Out here, everything echoes so loud. And I’m afraid if I let out the sound I could, we’ll be the front page of the Sunday paper tomorrow morning. Eileen Martin is always so hungry for a damn story.
His grunts intensify as we both sprint toward the finish line, and my whole body shakes with the pinnacle of need for release.
It washes over me in a giant wave—we’re talking tsunami—and he covers my mouth with his own as he tumbles over the cliff right after me. The sound of our mingled breaths is the only thing in the slightly chilly air, and a feeling of overwhelming rightness is all I can think of.
Never in my life has it felt like this.
A hard, grated water tower deck beneath us, and it was still that good?
Never in my life.
“Oh yeah.” He’s still inside me, still filling me up. But his eyes are entirely locked on mine. “I think I’m going to have to convince you to be mine.”
“Clay—”
“No, baby, don’t even try. Water towers are my favorite place, and you’re officially my favorite thing.”
The feeling is surprisingly and completely mutual. After tonight, I have a strong suspicion that I’m going to be seeing a whole hell of a lot of Clay Harris.
7
Clay
Wednesday, June 19th
Josie throws her head back and cackles as Sheriff Peeler regales her with his third whiskey-inspired tale of the night, and I pop the cap off a couple of Miller Lites and pass them across the bar while I watch.
“Thanks,” Harold Metcalf says, and I reward him with a two-finger salute and a nod. I could be friendlier, seeing as his patronage is what keeps me in food and shit, but all I want is a little time with my obsession, and it’s like all these fuckers are expecting me to actually tend bar.
I dole out two more mixed drinks and a bucket of beers for the boys in the back, and I finally find myself in front of the dazzling blonde with the magic smile and perfect eyes just as Sheriff Peeler gets scraped away by Hal Newton and Earl Lathers, the owner of our sweet little town’s one and only grocery store.