Total pages in book: 16
Estimated words: 15212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 76(@200wpm)___ 61(@250wpm)___ 51(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 15212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 76(@200wpm)___ 61(@250wpm)___ 51(@300wpm)
Oh God, my suicidal heart is pulsing in an entirely new way. Big, almost painful booms. “You know that saying If something is too good to be true, it probably is?”
“Yeah.”
My head tilts back to keep eye contact. “That’s what this feels like.”
He’s visibly confused. “I’m . . . too good to be true? Me?”
“You bought me a bike, Luke. You’re good with my son . . .”
“You made me jeans that fit. You apologized to my chickens for making them get out of your way.” The last thing I expect is for him to physically pick me up, but that’s what happens. In fact, I’m tossed up into his arms like pizza dough and trapped against his burly chest as he walks us slowly back out into the living room, using a hip to close the bedroom door. “You’re brave and sentimental and a little heartbroken for a few different reasons. You’ve got a lot of pride. Talent. You’re breathtaking, Evie. Gorgeous. If anyone is too good to be true here, it’s you.”
I’m squirming in his arms, no idea what to do with the overflow of compliments. Or how they make me feel like I’m standing in the sun after a cold winter. I’m not hiding my reason very well, either, so neither one of us takes me seriously when I say, “Maybe you’re just saying all that because you want to sleep with me.”
“I can tell the truth and still want to fuck you.”
“Wow. ‘Get you a man who does both,’ right?”
“You don’t have to. I’m right here.”
He sets me down on my feet in front of the couch, hands flexing at his sides, obviously waiting for me to give him the green light. “You know,” I say, sprinkling some seduction into my voice, “you get a little more confident every time I see you.” He allows me to reverse our positions and push him down onto the couch. “What’s that about?”
“I don’t know.” His chest puffs up and down. “Maybe it’s the way you look at me.”
I kneel in front of him, settling my hands on his knees and slowly, slowly letting my palms travel toward the juncture of his thighs. The closer I get to his mounting erection, the faster he breathes, his fingers digging into the couch cushions, lust bracketing his mouth. “How do I look at you?” My hands reach the growing bulge between his legs and scrub over it lightly—up, back, up and back—while he curses gutturally, making him stiff as possible before I unzip his jeans. “Like I want to do this?” I lean down and kiss the ridge trapped in his gray underwear before peeling the waistband down, exhaling in a rush at the sight of him, long and thick and wrapped in veins. “Oh, my sweet Lord.”
“Funny, I was just thinking the same exact thing,” he groans, his head falling back, his arms stretching out along the back of the couch. “It ain’t built for sucking, sweetheart, I know. Just use your hands and lick the head for a while if you can. If you don’t mind.”
I have no idea what to address first: how politely he’s requesting a (sort of?) blow job or the other part. “Not built for sucking?” He shakes his head adamantly, as if to drive that point home. A point I’m suddenly determined to show him is false. Placing my lips on the crown of his erection, I speak right against it so my lips stroke him with every word. “I think we need to disprove that theory.”
He moans.
I haven’t even done anything yet and he’s moaning, fingers buried in the couch cushions, his stomach heaving up and down. This man has not been given the pleasure he deserves—and I’m going to get a lot of satisfaction out of being the first.
Bringing him fully out of his briefs, I gather my hair in a ponytail and make brief eye contact, wordlessly asking him to hold it. He does. In an unsteady hand. And all of him turns unsteady as soon as I suck him into my mouth, stretching my lips to their full capabilities, using both hands to masturbate him, twisting gently on the upstroke, taking as much of him into my mouth as I can handle, spitting on him to help lubricate my path.
“Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus,” he chants when I give him an extra-rough suck, followed by quick, continuous strokes. “Oh Jesus, please.”
“I think you were built for sucking,” I murmur, then rake my teeth up and down the side of his straining sex, flicker my tongue against the head. “Say it, Luke.”
“I was made for sucking.” His fist gets firmer in my hair, and my hormones sing happily. “It was made for Evie to suck on.”
I rub the tip of my tongue in his slit, and come appears like liquid pearls, streaking down the side of his thickness, where I catch the droplets with my stroking hands, using them to make him even more slippery, hands moving faster, making his breath hitch along with his hips, his giant body growing restless on the couch.