Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“Good enough.” He climbs up beside me, kneeling, looming.
“You better not be fucking around. You better—” But he shuts me up as soon as he touches my body.
Holy shit. Holy shit.
If this man weren’t too much already, he really wasn’t kidding about the massage. No, he’s not a professional, but he’s so damn good with his hands that it’s absurd. I really want to hate it, really want to resist it, but after maybe thirty seconds I’m making these really embarrassing whale-like moans. Low, animalistic, satisfying. He doesn’t seem to mind as his hands drift lower and lower, down to the edge of the towel, and then there’s no towel at all, and he’s kneading my ass, and fuck him, I’d scream and make him stop if it didn’t feel so damn good.
Arousal fills me. I’m groaning as I turn my head. He’s staring at me, eyes like fire.
“You’re too low,” I whisper, biting my lip, salivating at the thought of him going even lower.
“You need this.”
“How do you know what I need?”
“Your body’s telling me. That’s what I’ve learned over the years. Listen to the body.”
“My body’s saying I need to finish that painting.”
“No, little devil, it’s saying you want my hand between your legs. You’re wound up too tightly for a little massage to help.”
“Okay, see, I knew this was where you were going.” I think about escaping, but I’m very naked, and if I move at all, he’ll see everything. As if there’s much to hide at this point.
His hands don’t stop. He works my lower back. My shoulders. Down to my ass again. And this time, he doesn’t stop, one hand dropping down between my legs.
“That’s my Hellie,” he says as his fingers find my arousal. “Oh, I knew it.”
“Shut up,” I say, groaning. It feels so fucking good. I arch my back, just a little, lifting my hips to give him a better angle.
He teases my clit, rubs my lips, slides his fingers deep inside. His other hand grabs my hair and I gasp in surprise.
“I want to take care of you, Hellie, in every way you need. If I don’t do it, nobody else will.”
“Take care of yourself. Seriously, go over in the corner, whip out your cock, and take care of yourself. Leave me out of it.”
“You want to watch while I stroke myself?” His fingers slide deeper. His grip on my hair tightens. My hips raise up—magically, all by themselves, I swear I’m not doing anything at all—and he’s fucking me with that lovely hand of his. “You want to finish yourself off at the same time as I come? I’ll lick your fingers clean and you can lick mine.”
“Uh,” I say, sucking in air. “Fuck, that’s hot and I hate you a little bit for putting it in my head.”
“We can do that. Or I can keep going until you come. Do you want to come for me, Hellie?”
“Yes,” I gasp, and he’s going faster now. “Yes, I want to come, I want to come, yes.” My hips are moving, bucking against his fingers, bliss ripping into my body. “Fuck yes, fuck yes, don’t stop.”
I come against his hand, his other fist gripping my hair tight, pulling back as the orgasm slams into my core, ripping into my brain. I come hard, gasping, moaning, my pussy a soaking wet bomb of desire against his palm.
He pulls his hand away and I collapse onto my belly, still twitching from the after-effects.
“That’s my girl,” he says, pulling the blankets back and covering me. He stands near the bed, licking his fingers clear, as I cuddle against a pillow, feeling like my body’s made of clay. “Go to sleep, get some rest. I’ll wake you up soon.”
“Then I paint for you some more?”
“Yes, devil girl, you paint for us both. Go to sleep.”
He disappears. The lights turn out.
Asshole doesn’t have to tell me twice—I go to sleep.
Chapter 15
Hellie
I finish around four in the afternoon on the third day.
I’m fried. My head hurts. My eyes are like swollen balloons. My hands are cramping, and there’s paint everywhere, staining my clothes, my skin. I sit cross-legged on top of the work table in the center of the room looking from the reference book to my finished piece, back and forth, back and forth, for almost an hour.
“It’s not perfect,” I tell him. Erick’s standing nearby and hasn’t said a word since he found me like this. I didn’t want to engage him, not yet, but at this point there’s not much more I can do. “If I had more time, I could get it there. Another week, and I think I could make the details perfect, assuming you could get me a better picture to go off. But it’s finished.”
He steps forward, coming into view. I watch him, heart beating hard, surprised by how much I want him to approve of this.