Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
She blinks, then drops me from her mouth. “I forgot,” she says. “I was too excited. Thanks for the reminder.”
Dear god.
It’s a wonder I don’t blow right now.
I reach past her to grab the lube. She holds open her hands, and I drizzle some into her palms.
“You’re a two-hander.” She says it like she’s proud of my dick or maybe of her ability to take care of it. My eager girl is back on me with a throaty purr, her mouth a warm heaven, her hands a slick tunnel.
And I’m incinerated.
It’s not the technique. It’s not the placement of her hands. It’s her—the sounds she makes. The enthusiasm she shares with me. The excitement that’s palpable in her touch, in her body, in her eyes.
She wants this to be good for me.
She practiced on a silicone dildo to give me a blow job. If that doesn’t say dedication, I don’t know what does.
Her hands slide along the base, her tongue corkscrewing over the head.
Electricity crackles in me when she rolls her tongue down the underside of my shaft. I’m so damn sensitive there that I’m moaning, gasping, then just begging. “Finish me off, baby. I’m so fucking close.”
In no time, her lips wrap tightly around me again, and everything is throbbing urgently. Her hands are slick and hot; her mouth is paradise. I grunt out an alert. “Coming,” I mutter.
She swallows my release, then seconds later, as I’m sighing and panting, she grabs the towel and wipes her hands.
“C’mere,” I tell her. She climbs onto my lap, and I cup her face. She looks happier than I’ve ever seen her. I don’t know what to make of that, except these lessons are working on her.
They’re also working on me. Almost too well on me, but those are the risks. And I’m racing full speed ahead through them, no matter the danger.
Especially when I kiss her, tasting me, tasting cherry lube, and tasting her. I love all the tastes because the cocktail tastes like our private nights together.
When I break the kiss, I say, “I’ve never had a blow job like that.”
Curious, she arches a brow. “What do you mean?”
“Like you really wanted to.”
“Spoiler alert: I really wanted to.”
“I could tell,” I say, stroking her cheek.
“No one has ever…?” She doesn’t finish the question, almost like she doesn’t want to talk about other people or other blow jobs.
I don’t really either, but I also want her to know what she did to me. “Not like that. Not with so much enthusiasm.”
“Can I tell you something?” she asks, her eagerness to share pitching her tone higher.
“Anything.”
“I like it. You taste really good,” she says.
It’s just sex. It’s truly just sex. But goddamn, she makes me feel better than I knew was possible.
There’s only one thing to do with all these feelings.
Give it to her good.
I strip off her top, tear off her panties, and then devour her pussy till she’s writhing and screaming my name as she fucks my face. Seconds later, she’s coming on my mouth.
When I wedge myself alongside her on the couch, my stomach rumbles.
Laughing, she sets a hand on my abs. “Let me make you something.”
“Did you look that up in How to be a Great Girlfriend?”
She laughs. “No, Carter. I just know you. You like to eat. And despite your best efforts, you can’t survive on me alone.”
“But I can try,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “You need food. Not more pussy.”
“I beg to differ,” I say, since appearances and all.
But still, she does know me. And I like it too much, this knowing. These moments. This little cocoon of our private nights.
We get dressed and head to the kitchen where she grabs ingredients from the fridge with a focus that tells me she’s planned for this. Then she confirms it as she says, “I went shopping for you.”
“You did?”
“Well, I knew you were coming over, and I figured you’d be hungry. I wanted to have something to cook. Sort of the whole girlfriend experience.”
She wants these days and nights together to be as good for me as they are for her. That blows my mind in a whole new way. I’m happier than I have a right to be as she appoints me her sous chef while she whips up lemon zucchini noodles with garlic chicken bites, telling me how she looked up recipes today at work, then shopped after she left the store. Hearing these little details of her to-do list tugs on my heart. This is another thing I like. Another thing I’ll miss.
What would it be like if I were honest with her like I’ve tried to be with myself? Like Monroe asked me to be? Would I tell her how much I like hearing about her to-do list? How much I like cooking with her? Even chopping these orange peppers, as I’m doing now?