Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 79020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Probably just as fucked as I feel when I think about tracing my tongue along every curve of her lips before dipping it inside her mouth. Just the idea of her sucking on my tongue makes my cock threaten to blow, but when I turn her to face me, her eyelashes glistening with droplets of water now instead of tears from last night, I just can't seem to pull the trigger.
Instead, I drop to my knees, lift her leg over my shoulder and suck her clit into my mouth, relishing in the way she practically rips my hair out of my head before she comes. Then I dive in and do it all over again.
Chapter 18
Zara
Walking on air.
I've heard it said many times in my life, but I never actually thought it was a thing. I figured it was words people used to describe something they couldn't actually explain, but I know exactly what they meant now.
I leave the bathroom, water droplets still clinging to my skin, my legs weak, my smile strong.
Yet, my bedroom is empty. The living room is empty, and from the end of the hallway, I can see that the kitchen also doesn't have a surly man standing in it.
I figured when he left the shower, he'd be around. I didn't think he'd leave the house altogether.
I do my best to shove down the twinge of pain his absence causes, but he just left.
Granted, he made me come twice on his tongue and once on his cock, leaving me nearly incapable of standing, but it's rude for him to just leave without saying goodbye.
Do I deserve a goodbye? If this is what it is, us just messing around and enjoying each other's bodies, do I have a right to be annoyed?
Having a right or not, irritation still simmers inside of me as I dry off, get dressed for the day, and head to the kitchen for a cup of coffee.
Not that I expected one, but there's no note on the counter explaining his hasty exit. Hell, he could've easily yelled see ya later from the fucking hallway. It doesn't take much effort to be considerate.
Tapping my fingers on the laminate counter, I tell myself to just get over it. The man is giving me the best sex of my life, and I shouldn't expect anything more from him.
But I can't get the memory of him holding me last night while I cried out of my head. I don't know what caused the rush of emotions. Maybe it was the culmination of the last eight months. Maybe it was being worried for the girl I saw Tommy with. Maybe it was the fear that raged inside of me when I heard someone in my house, and then the relief of knowing it was him. Maybe it was the realization that despite his ability to hurt me in ways I can only imagine, I still want him near.
He didn't shy away from me or my tears, and maybe that was enough to make my mind convince the rest of me that there's more to whatever this is between us.
I should know better. Men like him don't do happily ever after, and I'm more than aware that fairy tales don't exist.
Owen didn't leave the house to go grab breakfast for the two of us after seeing my mostly empty refrigerator. He isn't a sweetheart who is considerate of other people, despite how he acted last night.
My first sip of coffee hits my stomach like a brick, making me remember I haven't eaten anything since yesterday morning. I pull the bread from the fridge and toss a couple of pieces into the toaster, standing over the damn thing because it has to be supervised like a toddler with a marker or it'll burn.
Dry toast is just as boring as it sounds, and as I eat it, I consider all the things I could do today rather than worrying about why Owen left without so much as a middle finger in the air.
I choke down the toast and the coffee, grab my purse, and leave the house.
Just as I'm locking the door, my phone rings, and like a fool, I rush to pull it out of my purse.
Owen doesn't have my phone number, so I don't know why I was hoping to see an unfamiliar number on the screen. Instead, it's from the area code where Billy is being housed in prison. I hit the decline button and shove the damn thing back into my purse.
I should've changed my number when I left. It's bad enough that I'm getting letters from him in prison. It was the last thing I considered when I used one of the forwarding mail requests through the post office when I moved.
Stupidly, I read the first letter, thinking maybe he'd feel guilty about what he did. But he was still fully in the middle of his blame game because according to him, it was all my fault that he was in prison. I still haven't figured out the math on that one.