Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 116455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
I cued up twenty years’ worth of JT images. JT in swim trunks, flying off the end of the rope swing into the lake with a whoop.
JT catching my eye across the chemistry lab and making a face about how boring Mr. Blinney’s class was.
JT showing up to the prom in a designer tuxedo that had reminded me he’d always been meant for bigger and better things.
JT’s tuxedo shirt plastered to his back with sweat as he danced his feet off later that night with Callahan Whitney.
My balls tingled as I remembered how it had felt to go home that night and jerk off to the memory of that sweaty back and his muscular ass in those tux pants.
“Fuck,” I groaned, out loud this time.
JT Wellbridge was a selfish asshole, but he was a sexy one.
I ran a hand up my stomach to my chest and then my throat, remembering how it had felt when he’d pinned me to the door in the high school locker room one time to get in my face about my attitude during a basketball game in PE class.
He’d clasped my throat with his large hand, but as he’d yelled at me for getting away with foul after foul, I’d felt the tiniest stroke of his thumb along the skin under my ear as if he’d been exploring the feel of me.
“Oh god.” I was going to come. I was going to come to the memory of JT Wellbridge yelling at me when we were sixteen.
My hand shuttled over my cock as I reached for my hole with the other. My hands were slick with soap, and steam coated my skin as I finally let myself remember our one and only time together.
JT looking up at me like I was god’s gift as his lush mouth worked the length of my hard dick.
JT sucking me and rimming me until I saw stars.
You’ve always been mine.
Give it up. Give it to me.
Just once, Firecracker.
His voice had sounded hoarse and broken that night. More real and vulnerable than he’d ever been with me before. With his hands on my body and his scent in my nose, I’d pictured him standing across from me at Grandpa Horace’s graveside service, all windblown and messy, and remembered how his sad eyes had met mine.
I’d thought, in that moment, JT Wellbridge knows me. JT Wellbridge could be my anchor. And I’d been so, so close to giving in and letting him fuck me.
Something had held me back, though, even after he’d swallowed my cum and held me for hours while I’d sobbed. Some instinct had made me hesitate, knowing that my dick and my grief were not reliable decision-makers. And in the end, I’d been right. Because mere hours later, he’d walked right out the fucking door to resume his real life, and he hadn’t come back until now.
This was why I usually refused to get off on the memory of JT Wellbridge. Because the movie always ended the same stupid way.
But just when I was about to give up and take my tired self to bed, my finger brushed over my sensitive rim, and my mind spun, spitting out two brand-new images—the way JT’s blue eyes had gone hot and stormy the moment they’d met mine across the bar the day before… and the arrogant note he’d left on top of his prissy leather folio, right in the center of my desk.
Reconsider.
And all the refusals and hesitations in the world couldn’t keep me from coming hard against the shower wall screaming out the fucker’s name.
Chapter Five
JT
Breakfast in Wellbridge House was a special kind of torture.
Sometimes a man just wanted to sleep late on a Saturday, then hit the kitchen in his boxers, drink a mug of black coffee, and eat sugared cereal while standing at the counter. That sort of impropriety would never be tolerated in Patricia Wellbridge’s home, though.
My mother believed the only civilized way to begin the day was at precisely 8:00 a.m., en famille, at a table set with Royal Doulton and covered with food that she, herself, would never eat.
“Reagan? Darling, I had Rosalia prepare those eggs especially for you. Nice and runny, just the way you like them. You really must eat something. You’re looking so peaky,” she fretted, pushing away her own half-eaten plate of melon spears and fat-free cottage cheese. “And your pallor will be memorialized in our family photos for the Honeybridge Ledger later today. Isn’t that right, Senator?”
My father grunted from behind his newspaper.
I glanced up from my tablet, where I was triple-checking the new and even more generous offer for Honeybridge Mead that Alice and I had hurriedly pulled together, just in case Flynn stuck by his refusal, and glanced across the table at my brother in amusement.
Reagan’s normally perfect blond hair hung in a hank over one bloodshot eye, his jaw was covered in stubble, and judging by the way he rubbed his forehead when he thought no one was looking, his peakiness was almost definitely the result of too much champagne at Ashley Waitrose’s party down at the marina the night before.