Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
He hinted at this in his San Francisco penthouse when I confessed what I wanted. But I need more. “What do you mean?”
“The suite at the ballpark? It was risky, but ultimately safe because it was just you and me. And you were on your knees. You weren’t visible. Then at The West House, they are strict about no cell phones, and no one could have seen under the table anyway.”
Rafe could teach a master class in planning perfect exhibitionist trysts. My heart thumps harder.
“And in New York on the phone, you made sure my back was to the window.”
I didn’t think it was possible to fall for him any harder. But what am I supposed to do with all these powerful feelings for him? They’re going nowhere. He made that clear.
Rafe inches closer until there’s barely any space between us, and his thumb strokes my jaw possessively. “I knew somebody would want to take a picture of you. I’d looked up the ballroom online, knew the balcony, and knew we could get away with public sex if your back was to the world. I don’t want your reputation compromised.”
“But what about yours?” I ask. “I care about you. And you’re letting your picture be seen everywhere.”
He just shrugs and smiles. “I’m not a ballplayer. I don’t cater to all ages. I sell to adults. I’m just a man peddling sex appeal.”
“But your deal. Your employees,” I point out, since he’ll beat himself up if he loses focus.
“Like I said, the press is mostly talking about the success of the diverse campaign. But that’s not even the point,” he says in that rich, smooth, sensual voice.
“What’s the point?”
He clasps my cheek, his touch sending a rush of blazing heat through me. “You’re worth it,” he says. “It’s all worth it for you.”
If he’s saying what I think he’s saying . . . But no. I have to stay in the moment.
“Rafe,” I chide.
He’ll have none of my worries. “Gunnar,” he commands, stopping to look at his watch. “You go wheels up in thirty minutes. I leave for London in fifteen. Let me have my fantasy now. Let me finish what I couldn’t start last night.”
Who am I to deny him?
In a private room in a private airport, Rafe gets down on his knees, unzips my jeans, and pushes them down my hips. I help him along, and shove my red rooster briefs down to my thighs, my cock springing free.
Rafe smiles when he sees the design and the goods. “Perfect for you,” he whispers and then my on-again, off-again British lover wraps his hands around my ass, kisses the tip of my dick, then hauls me to the back of his throat.
I groan savagely.
He sucks me deep then eases back, stopping to let me fall out of his mouth. “It’s your fantasy. Be as loud as you want,” he urges. Then he returns my dick to the warm, dirty heaven of his mouth.
So I close my eyes and groan and curse as he lavishes wicked attention on my dick, sucking me hard and fast, fondling my balls, squeezing my thighs, kneading my ass. He hauls me closer, insisting I fuck his face.
Pleasure whips through me, and I’m not far off. Muttering incoherently, I thrust harder and faster. Soon, all too soon, pleasure blinds me and I come down his throat in a white-hot blur.
I’m still in a daze as he wipes a hand across his mouth, rises, and presses a kiss to my lips. Then he looks at his watch.
Rafe stares at me with longing and pain. “I have to go to London, but I don’t want to,” he admits.
It’s like he’s laying his heart in my hands.
“You have to go,” I say, managing to tug up my briefs then zip my jeans.
“Tell me to stay,” he implores.
He sounds so desperate and lost. Desperate for me. I’m pretty sure he feels all the same things I do.
I set a hand on his chest and say again, “You have to go. You need to finish your deal,” I say.
He rests his forehead against mine for a moment, then gives me one more kiss. This one is tender, possessive, and full of promise. “I want you,” he whispers.
I slide my hands over his chest. “I want the same.” But I push him away. I keep my promises. “You need to get on that plane.”
He groans in misery. “I’ll be thinking of you the entire time.”
I smirk, then shake my head, borderline amused. “Welcome to my hell.”
He cracks a smile. But he doesn’t move.
Well, someone has to do the hard part. “Get on your plane,” I tell him.
He growls.
I button my jeans and open the door. We both duck into the men’s room to wash our hands, and when we’re presentable, he walks me to my gate, then stops, locking eyes with my brother.