Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 169305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 847(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 847(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
I downed the espresso like a shot, discarding it on the island before tugging my phone out of my pocket. My knuckle brushed my dick along the way.
That was enough to elicit a hiss from my lips.
No one told me I’d be reduced to animalistic needs after losing my virginity. With Octi away, I’d gone from fucking three to four times a day to zero.
Suddenly, Oliver von Bismarck’s entire existence made infinitely more sense.
I hadn’t even jerked off since she’d waltzed out of my life, leaving me in chaos. Not for lack of effort.
Last night, when I pulled up random porn, I couldn’t even get hard.
Fine. I missed Farrow.
Sue me.
Farrow Ballantine and her flowing hair, perfect length for fisting. And her lean thighs, so skilled at riding my cock. And her tight pussy, so sweet and soft like the mango on my plate.
“Out.”
It took a moment for the three of us to realize the harsh growl had come from me.
Mom frowned, padding to me.
She placed her hand over my forehead, then retreated before it made contact, remembering that I hated touching. “Are you okay?”
“Please. Leave.”
I sliced the mango in half, just before the pit, forcing myself to look somewhat normal. Sensing my mood, Ayi chose self-preservation, leading Mom out of my mansion by force.
As soon as the door closed, I gripped the edge of the countertop with my free hand, squeezing hard. My eyes slammed shut.
I conjured Farrow into my mind, naked and spread-eagle across the island. With her pink nipples and glistening pussy, waiting just for me.
“Octi,” I choked out, hardening in my slacks.
In my imagination, she invited me closer, writhing on the counter as she trailed one hand between her legs, swirling her finger around her swollen clit.
My cock strained against my pants as my mouth watered. I imagined myself leaning down, getting a taste of her delicious, soaked pussy.
I took a greedy bite out of the mango. Juices flowed down my chin. The fruity scent filled my nostrils as I tasted her. Sugary and earthy.
Perfect, perfect, perfect.
A growl ripped from my throat as I feasted on the mango, faster and harder now, envisioning myself eating her out.
I stood, pushing my cock against the cabinet, welcoming the friction, humping my own kitchen like a dog as I ate.
Without her, I’d lost my mind, my dignity, my grip on reality.
“Octi.”
I hollowed out the mango, coming inside my own pants. The milky, hot cum shot into the fabric, refusing to end.
I tossed the mango flesh into the sink and dropped my head between my shoulders in frustration. My entire body convulsed, shuddering as if going through intense withdrawals.
I couldn’t take another minute without her.
Fuck it.
I plucked my phone out and pressed call on the first speed dial.
Then promptly hung up before it even rang, because I was officially, completely, and utterly pussy-whipped.
Pathetic and doomed, I repeated the process again and again.
Call.
End.
Green.
Red.
A glutton for punishment.
I wanted her touch.
I. Wanted. Her. Touch.
Cum stained my Kiton slacks, crusting against my skin. Untamed strands of hair stuck to my temples. I hadn’t done any grooming in days.
I glanced up, staring at my reflection in the shiny sink, not recognizing myself.
Sweat crept down my cheeks. A red flush stretched forehead-to-chin, ear-to-ear.
I flicked on the faucet and lowered my face beneath the current, releasing an anguished roar.
When I lifted my head up, Mom stared at me from across the island, reaching for her forgotten purse.
She clutched it to her chest, her voice small. “Are you sick, Zachary?”
I’m not sick, I thought wretchedly. Just in love.
T-MINUS 17 DAYS.
“Hello, you’ve reached Eileen Yang. I’m either on call or away from my desk. Please leave your name, number, and a brief message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you.”
“This is your ex-fiancé calling for the thousandth time. You would know we’ve progressed into ex territory if you’d—I don’t know—pick up the damn phone, answer your emails and texts, or perhaps even—and I know this is a wild suggestion—not stand me up for five fucking hours at The Grand Regent lobby. As you can see, it is of utmost importance that we speak face-to-face in order to confirm that you understand our entanglement has officially ended. If you’d like to un-fuck me anytime soon, I’ll be waiting, doing my damnedest not to destroy every piece of your overprivileged life in the process. Talk soon.”
T-MINUS 13 DAYS.
When it came to my future demise, I always wondered when it would happen.
Not if.
Not how.
But when.
It seemed inevitable.
In April, I would turn thirty-four, the age Dad had been when he passed away. How could he—larger than life, a pillar of the community, my idol—be outlived by me?
The answer—impossible.
And so, I no longer bothered trying to pretend to be an upstanding citizen of society. Or even a participant in civilization.
I succumbed to my demise, hopping restaurant to restaurant, hotel to hotel, hunting down the bane of my existence—Eileen Yang.