Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
We’re sardines here in the backseat of her sports car, parked outside a country club Rose’s parents belonged to way back when.
The place I worked at in high school, waiting tables. I traveled here from Queens, since the tips were better in Greenwich, so I know all the nooks and crannies, but I don’t want to tell her my stories of the club right now.
Nope.
This is the place where I was looked down on. Where the members tossed their greenbacks at me with barely a second thought.
I feel a little defiant tonight, wrapped up with Layla outside the country club that I could now buy a million memberships for. But I never will. I won’t buy one. Anywhere.
I like it better on the outside.
And on the outside, I get to have this. A woman who doesn’t judge.
This fantastic woman, basking by my side.
And I think I’ll take a little more of her, thank you very much.
As she breathes out hard once again, I lift my fingers to my mouth and suck off the taste of her.
I groan salaciously.
She turns her head, watching me with avid eyes. “How do I taste?”
“Like salt and sex and sweetness,” I tell her.
Her gaze drifts down me to the ridge in my slacks. Hard, insistent.
I’m not asking for a hand job. I’m not asking for anything. I didn’t make her come so I could come too. But when she palms me, I groan.
“Let me,” she whispers.
I shake my head, but it feels futile already. “You don’t have to. I just wanted to take care of you. I always want to take care of you.”
“And I want to touch you,” she says, insisting, gripping me tighter.
“There’s hardly any room here. Don’t want to make a mess of this car,” I say, to give her an out.
With a roll of her eyes, she tsks me. “I’m not going to use my hand.”
Oh, fuck. Oh, hell. Oh, yes.
That’s a horse of a different color—the blow job color.
“Suck me off, beautiful,” I tell her.
“I thought so.” She’s speedy, maneuvering between my legs, undoing the button on my pants. I help her along, eagerly pushing down my slacks, my boxer briefs, then offering her my throbbing cock.
She nibbles on the corner of her lips, then curls her fist around the base. Lust rattles through my whole body. I’m a raging forest fire already.
“Lick it,” I command.
She obeys, her lush blonde hair spilling across my lap as she flicks her tongue over the head.
“Yessss,” I gasp.
I’m in dirty heaven as she draws me into her warm mouth. It’s a fiesta of my favorite things—her hair fanned out on my lap, her lips around my dick, her scent filling the car.
Her.
Just her.
She’s diligent, a blow-job worker bee as she sucks with speed and purpose. Fine by me. No woman should have to finesse a blow job in the back of a car.
“Won’t take long,” I mutter as she swallows more of me.
I swear she smiles against my dick.
“Gonna watch you the whole fucking time,” I say.
She lifts her face briefly, her eyes flashing with wickedness. Then, she’s back to work.
Pushing those gorgeous strands away from her face, I savor the filthy view. My dick filling her mouth, pushing on her cheek. Her swollen lips stretched around my shaft. Her eyes watering just a bit.
What a sight.
My thighs shake.
She sucks harder.
I’m not far off. “Do that again,” I urge as my chest heats up.
She complies, sucking harder, taking me deeper.
My balls tighten. “Gonna come,” I warn.
I lose it, coming down her throat in seconds as I enjoy the fantastic sight of this beautiful woman hellbent on owning my dick.
Well, she does own it.
But she’s owning a hell of a lot more of me too.
That’s the problem. And I’m not sure I’m going to find a solution to it tonight, so I stop trying.
It’s only an hour to Manhattan. But a few minutes into the return drive, her stomach growls.
I grab the opportunity her belly is offering. “Let me feed you before we get back,” I say.
Once we reach the city, I’ll have to snap back to my proper role. Father, businessman, friend to Layla.
Here in Connecticut, we’re still in no-man’s land. The tryst zone.
“If you insist,” she says.
“I do.”
Ten minutes later, we’re walking into a roadside diner at a rest stop. Layla tosses me a smile. “I love diners,” she says.
“How unusual.”
“Don’t mock me for liking something,” she says, a little hurt.
No way do I ever want to hurt her. “Sorry. That was a dick move. I’m glad you like diners,” I say, to ease my callous remark. “Especially since not everyone admits they do.”
“But I’ve never been to a rest-stop diner,” she adds, quick to forgive.
I wrap an arm around her waist. “Good. I get another first.”
She shivers against me, then eyes my arm. “I thought this was wrong,” she says, like she’s catching me on a technicality but one she wants to find too.