Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 124005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 620(@200wpm)___ 496(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 620(@200wpm)___ 496(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
She grabs the back of my neck, nails biting into my skin. “Oh God, that’s it.”
“Am I hitting the spot? You gonna let me see you fall apart?” I smirk at her annoyed expression. “I want my name on your lips when you’re creaming all over my hand.”
“Fuck it.” She tugs on the back of my neck.
I let her pull me forward until my lips almost touch hers. “You breaking your own rules?”
She growls. I slant my mouth over hers. She parts for me on the softest mewl. Her hips roll as my tongue pushes past her lips. I kiss her to the same rhythm as my fingers moving inside her. She’s perfect. She’s everything I’ve ever wanted, and right now she’s mine. Her pussy contracts around my fingers. I break the kiss so I can watch her unravel.
“So damn gorgeous, coming all over my fingers like a goddess.”
She quakes and shudders, eyes fluttering, nails biting into my skin as my name tumbles from her parted lips. She’s glorious, and now I’ll have this memory—skin flushed, surrounded by the scent of her, and the knowledge that I did this, I made her feel this way, made her moan my name, made her come, gave her what she needs.
She sags and softens, chest heaving. I wait until she opens her eyes before I withdraw my fingers, and I hold her gaze as I suck them clean. “So fucking good.” I groan.
Wills gapes at me. “Good God, Dallas, you’re depraved.”
“Next time, you’re sitting on my face.” I kiss her cheek. “I’ll see myself out. See you tomorrow night.” I wink, adjust my hard-on, and leave her in the kitchen, looking sated—and like she’s not opposed to the idea of my return.
CHAPTER 17
DALLAS
“I’ll take these. Can I also have them gift wrapped, please?”
“Absolutely, sir.” The woman behind the counter gives me a megawatt smile and retrieves her wrapping supplies.
I’ve been on the hunt for perfect gifts for my fiancée’s moms since nine this morning. I’ve been to no less than twenty stores. Before I stopped here as a last-ditch effort, I stumbled into a café/bookstore to grab some caffeine and scarf down a couple of fudge oat bars. I also managed to find what seemed to be the perfect gift for her mom who is a general practitioner. And now I’ve finally found something I think will be perfect for mom number two.
I pull out my phone, surreptitiously checking the time. Fuck. It’s already four. How have I been at this for seven hours? Willy specifically said that I needed to be at her place by 4:30. She hates it when I’m late.
The woman behind the counter—whose name is LouLou, according to her name tag—appears to be performing delicate heart surgery, not wrapping pretty jewelry. While I appreciate her attention to detail, I’m already behind. Every extra minute increases Wills’s wrath exponentially. Most days I’m more than happy to take a tongue lashing from her. Before I became her fiancé, I loved it when she laid into me. Her ire was better than nothing. But now I want more of what happened last night. I want her to need me, to rely on me, to trust me to take care of her. It’s a shift in my perspective—hence the gifts for her moms and not wanting to be late.
Seven years later, LouLou is finally finished wrapping the gift. She takes another half decade to put it in a bag and curl the matching ribbon. I thank her and rush three blocks to my car.
I message Wills to let her know I’m stuck in traffic, but I’ll be there soon.
She sends a thumbs-up.
Which is as good as a middle finger. I’m so screwed. My anxiety rears its ugly head in the form of a stupid boner.
I park in the lot across the street from her building. I give my hard-on a rueful glare. “Dude, I took care of you three times this morning.” And twice last night after I got home from servicing my fiancée’s needs. I used my left hand and sniffed the fingers that had been inside her like the fucked up, obsessed man I am.
It takes three minutes for my dick to deflate. I hurry across the street to Willy’s building, managing to catch the door as someone else is leaving.
I hop into the elevator and run my damp hand over my thighs.
Everything will be fine. I will not die tonight.
The doors slide open, and I walk down the hall, the memories of last night are still fresh. I lock those down, because they’re not helpful or appropriate for meet-the-family night.
I take a deep breath and knock on the door. Three seconds later, it swings open. An anxiety boner inspired by an angry Wills would be preferable to what greets me on the other side.