Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 68390 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68390 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
And I’m not talking about the monster in my pants. I’m talking about the monster inside me. The good monster that feels just lovely and peachy because it’s lovely and peachy and wonderful to be kissed like this. Her hands at the nape of my neck feel wonderful. Her body pressing against mine ignites a fire that spreads through my bloodstream and goes straight to my cock, but to be fair, it also goes to my brain. Also, to be fair, it nearly shuts my brain completely off.
Her soft, flowy floral blouse is no match for me, buttons and all. My fingers make quick work of it, and she gasps when I send the silky fabric gliding down her shoulders and then her arms. I replace the fabric with my fingers, running them down her arms, and then I switch, feeling the soft, silky curve of her hip, then her belly, and then the top of her jeans.
This whole thing is just for show, right? Because I’m having a hard time remembering that. What I’d like to show is Weland. Show her a good time. With my mouth, my hands, my body.
She still has her hands wrapped around my neck, and as I brush the waistband of her jeans, she leans in, and the tips of her breasts hit my chest. Tips. As in nipples. Oh my god, her nipples are going to pierce through that plain black cotton sports bra. If it’s designed to be functional and not lovely, it’s not doing a very good job of that because I love the way her breasts look in it. Full and pert.
She angles into me, and I deepen the kiss, tasting her lips with renewed passion. I try and keep my dick away from her because I like to be a gentleman, but she bumps up against it, and the satisfied whimper she makes just about sends me straight out of my skin.
I love the way she’s breathing out of her nose and kissing me at the same time, so she doesn’t have to come up for air. I love the hot blasts of air I keep getting. It sounds like a funny thing, like a puffing and chuffing horse, but it’s not like that at all. There is nothing about Weland that isn’t absolutely wonderful and delicious, soft and curvy, hot as the fires of hellaciousness, and perfect.
She rocks into me, moaning against my lips when she rams the juncture of her thighs up against the bulge in my jeans. I see stars and give her a groan in return to rival a troll that just got stung with a pitchfork in the arse.
As if she remembers, oh right, we’re supposed to be putting on a show, and that means exaggerating, she reaches around and grabs my butt cheeks. Through my jeans. I gasp in shock, and she grins at me.
“I like this. You have a perfect rump.”
Then, she grabs my hands and puts them on hers. “So do you, Miss Bull,” I groan.
“That would be Mrs. Hopeschord. Don’t slip up now.”
Thinking about her as my wife is another thing that puts me off balance. I’m already rocky, but then Weland plants her hands on my chest and shoves me down onto the bed. She falls on top of me, straddling me and kissing me wildly.
“Give me that shirt, you sexy beast husband.” She balls her hands into my shirt and rucks it up my chest. I pick myself up just enough for her to slip it over my head. She licks her lips and rubs her palms over me, and it shouldn’t be hot, being touched like I’m a freshly baked monster cookie bar that’s just come out of the oven, but she’s slaying me here.
I’ll be her monster cookie bar, and she can lick me any day.
Weland makes the tiniest noise of appreciation in her throat and rocks her core against mine. She has to sit down to do it, and I let out a hiss that sounds like a punctured tire. It sounds like I’m dying. I might be dying. But it’s a great feeling. I’d like to die a little more if it’s like this. It might just happen because when she does it again, I can’t breathe.
I grasp her hips and rub her against me, jeans against jeans, my cock against her sweet, warm center that I can’t get at because of fucking jeans against jeans. Regardless, it’s wonderful. My head falls back against the bed, and I do it again. She does it again.
“Should I stop?” she pants. “Or maybe less friction. Probably less friction. It’s just for show anyway.”
“It’s just for…oh god. Please don’t stop.”
She grinds against me again, and that’s it. No matter what I just said, I have to make her stop, or there is going to be an incident in the pants. This isn’t high school, and I’m supposed to have more control than this.