Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
She didn’t smoke or drink or cuss. She didn’t fuck around or try to get back at the world. She was pure and untroubled. Her problems were external—fucked-up brother, lack of money, dead parents. Inside, she was unsoiled. It helped. The idea I was wrecking her.
The act of corruption fed my power hunger.
“Alex.” She rolled her head to the side, giving me access to her neck as one of my hands ran down her ass and squeezed, the other snaking between us and skimming over her pussy. She wore thick leggings. Guess I couldn’t fault her for that. It was close to freezing on the airplane, plus Moscow was going to be a shitshow weather-wise, and she knew better than not to check the weather, thanks to my cunty remark when we’d first arrived in Australia. I hated myself for riding her ass about her clothes. I also hated her leggings and all leggings in general and declared war on them. I rubbed her slit, salivating at how wet she must be under the layers of fabric between us.
“For fuck’s sake,” I groaned, throwing my head between her shoulder and neck. I needed so much more, but she was tiny. There was literally not enough to satisfy my hunger for her. My fingers were pushing so aggressively through the material of her leggings, I was sure I was about to tear them apart or set them on fire from the friction. Neither was an option that would score me brownie points on my way to her bed. “Strip for me.”
To my surprise, she pushed me away, wiggling out of her knitted stockings while standing up, her cheeks so red I did want to take a picture this time. Because she looked like foreplay, and foreplay and music were the reasons I’d been put on this earth.
“God, you’re beautiful.” And oh, was she ever. Like a painfully short, brilliant song that keeps you thirsty for more.
She dumped her leggings on the floor and launched at me. My back hit the glassed shower from the other end—viva la private jets—and we stumbled in together, so turned on we were fighting for each breath.
“Oh…oh…oh!” she screamed in pleasure as our tongues met and danced together, my fingers nudging her panties aside and fluttering over her slit. Shit. She was soaked, and I didn’t even dip one in. I rubbed my thumb up and down along her cunt, feeling my cock growing so impossibly hard and erect, it was reaching the point of painful. But I couldn’t rush her, and I didn’t want to, anyway. This was fun. Fun in the pre-adulthood kind of way, when you actually had to work hard and didn’t wash your hands for two days straight after fingering a girl.
“Oh, indeed.” I found her shy little clit and flicked it up and down, falling to the floor, the showerhead above our heads, while she straddled me, still in her dress.
“I’m going to hate myself in an hour.” She bit her lip, but a loud groan escaped, anyway. She was a moaner. A real one. Not a fake one. Not an I-want-you-to-like-me one, and there were too many of those, especially when your net worth matched Adam Levine’s. Hell, Fallon had put on a West End-worthy show for the first six months of our relationship. It was only after eight months or so that I realized she didn’t even like it up the arse and had just been humoring me so I wouldn’t leave—cheers, Fallon, for the vote of confidence.
But I didn’t want to think about Fallon. Not when I had a perfectly fuckable girl in my arms.
“Shit.” I laughed, our teeth clashing together in another messy kiss. “Moan louder and you’ll take over pirate radio stations in Mongolia.” I only guessed we were flying above it, though geography was not high on my list of interests at that point.
She pulled away, her eyes colored with confusion and embarrassment. “Really? Should I be quiet?”
Why had I said that? Did I have a built-in cock-blocking device along with my huge red button of self-destruction? There was absolutely no way in hell we were going to stop messing around because of those fuckers outside. Even if I had to throw them out—and yes, I was aware we were 35,000 feet in the air. I extended my arm above my head and turned the faucet on. A stream of spluttery, cold water rained down on us with a hiss. I rolled the handle all the way to the left, and steam bellowed over the glass around us as the water heated. It felt good. Forbidden. Crazy, just as we were.
“That’s better. Hit those high notes for me, Stardust, and go to town on my fingers. I wanna watch your face as you come, and you better come, because we’re not leaving this airplane until you do.”