Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Damn panties. They’re in the way, too.
I brush my own fingers over my clit and make a mewling noise into his mouth. I’m a healthy woman, and I’ve given myself regular orgasms—a few a week is what I deem regular—but I’ve never felt anything like that. My clit has never gone off with the spice level of raw jalapeno pepper.
I find Mont’s hand and drag it to my soaked panties. He very respectfully brushes his fingertips over my center, but I need more. Even arching into him isn’t enough.
“Tear them off,” I hiss. “Please.”
“And touch you?” Mont grunts.
“Yes, touch me. Touch me until I die,” I plead.
“What if I don’t want you to die?”
“That’s a euphemism for until I come repeatedly.”
His hand slides over the soft skin at the crease of my leg. I hook the other leg around him, making more room and opening myself up to him with a single shimmy of my hips. Everything about the way his fingers trace under the edges of my panties to the soft way he caresses my overheated folds feels like the most perfect thing in the world.
Ugh, you always read stories in books about how people feel like they fit so right together. There’s book stuff, and then there’s real-life stuff, and I thought they’d never line up or meet or even come close. This feels more like a fantasy right now than real life because I feel like we fit. Not just our bodies but the way every single touch, caress, kiss, and breath comes out feeling twisted and tangled together, and yeah, it’s right. So, so right.
Storybook right.
Even with the sheep’s butt keeping guard over our heads.
Chapter thirteen
Mont
My head is buzzing. I don’t want to hurt Evilla. I also don’t want to hurt me. And I don’t just mean physically.
“What if I didn’t leave?” I look at her, my hand frozen on her thigh. Her eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them. They’re normally tropical green with the sun on the water with white sand below, but right now, they’re like going deeper, like finding an underwater cave and diving in, where it’s so much earthier, where all the jewel tones hide.
“What if you didn’t leave?” she echoes.
“What if I left pudding but didn’t leave the city?”
“What if you stayed in both?”
“What if I left next year? Have you ever wanted to see the world?”
“I don’t know if I could take leave. The owner of the company might be a stickler for people staying in their jobs and making pudding magic happen. He just took over the company, and I heard he can be a bit of a workaholic. This is a new investment for him. He’ll want it to pay off.”
“And what if the said owner approved your leave?”
“I don’t know.” She gives a slow, hooded blink. “A year is a long time. I’d have to think about it. I’d have to…we’d have to grow into thinking about it. Is that what you mean? Are you asking me if I’d like to go on another date with you? Not as friends and not as a farewell?”
It’s nearly impossible to swallow with hope and nerves clogging up my throat. “And if that was what I meant?”
She gives me a frank look. “I know we didn’t plan on coming here tonight, but I didn’t think this was a one-night stand. Is it a one-night stand?”
“No. I…do you want it to be?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t want it to be. I didn’t have a feeling that it was, or I wouldn’t have asked you to bring me up those stairs. I wouldn’t have met your bear or your sheep’s butt. I wouldn’t have asked you to touch my pussy.”
Touch my pussy. Lord, dirty talk gets to me, and I’m already harder than a lead pipe in my jeans. “I’m terrible at this, aren’t I?”
“I don’t know. You haven’t touched it yet.” She smirks at me, and god, that sassy mouth of hers. “I know what you mean, Mont. It’s alright to be bad at talking about relationships. Thanks for making the effort before we do this. I’m no good at talking about it either, but it does mean a lot that you don’t want to just fuck and then boot me out the door.”
“I don’t want to just fuck, period.”
Her cheeks finally get a little bit pink when she says, “I don’t think just fucking is very good.”
She doesn’t think I’m some kind of weirdo for suggesting it because I’m a guy. Guys can want something more than just what’s going to happen in the next instant with their dick. They can think past that. I would say, corny as it is, they can think with their hearts too, and with their brains, and they can want something connected.