Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 23250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
I share sentiments of life with my parents before the step-demons during my mixing, and Nero doesn’t resist his instinct to hang onto my every word, showering me in attention I can hardly fathom deserving.
Thirty minutes later, sparkling apple juice becomes the finishing touch to our meal – due to the non-alcohol rule for a possible concussion – as we settle into the bench of the breakfast nook. In spite of the fact that there are so many captivating areas of the house that we could dine at it, we choose the one which is more intimate.
The one in which we resemble the two newlyweds I’m starting to think we’re no longer pretending to be but actually are.
One leg drapes itself lazily over his leg on a crooked grin.
There’s no missing the arrogant smirk the action creates or denying the instant possession the hand that lands on my thigh takes. Nero uses his other hand to retrieve his fork, break off a piece of the frittata from the plate we’re sharing, and offer the bite to me after blowing on it softly.
The instant the bite is on my tongue I’m bombarded with incredible flavors. While I know what to expect from the eggs, potatoes, and mozzarella, the added ingredients of mushrooms, cherry tomatoes, green onions, artichoke hearts, and diced salami add to it a fullness that’s topped off perfectly by the kick of fresh garlic and cayenne pepper he didn’t think I could handle. I do my best to swallow my moans alongside the mindboggling creation to stop myself from admitting that he knows his way around not my only heart but the kitchen as well it seems.
“So?” His expression is riddled in curiosity. “What do you think?”
Playfulness hijacks my answer, prompting me to respond with an unimpressed, “Meh.”
“What the fuck is meh?” His brows lurch upward in comedic outrage. “Meh does not sound like a good thing.”
I softly laugh, poorly hiding the fact I’m lying.
“You’re fucking with me.”
“Maybe…”
He smiles to himself, shakes his head, and sends the fork back down to retrieve another bite. “I see you’re in a challenging mood today.”
“You love it.”
“I do.” The proclamation is followed by him asking, “Your father was a 7th grade English teacher at a private prep school-”
“You remember that?”
“You aren’t the only who listens, Twinkle Toes.”
My mouth lowers to receive the offered bite.
“Did you ever wanna be a teacher? I know you looked up to him, so did that thought ever cross your mind?”
“Fuck no.”
Nero bursts into laughter as he finally feeds himself a piece of our dish.
“There wasn’t a day that went by where he didn’t have to grade some kid’s atrocious first essay. Back then, I would be reading a Judy Blume mystery on the couch nearby – wanting to be close to him because you know, Daddy’s girl – while he sat in his recliner with his trusty red pen, huffing and puffing over the work he was grading, reading pieces out loud to me before lecturing me on why that was wrong.” I laugh softly at the warm memory, surprised Nero’s eyes are alight with interest. “People called Dad boring all the time because he was interested in old literature and being one with nature, but Mom and I called him passionate.”
“Like you with interior design.”
“Exactly.” I prepare to reach for my wine glass that’s filled with juice thanks to the knot on my skull that’s thankfully shrinking. “What about you? What are you passionate about?”
“You.”
His purred answer causes my fingers to miss the stem of my glass.
Before I have the chance to teasingly snap back that I was being serious, his mouth is on mine. Gone are the gentle touches. Dismissed are the cautious caresses. The tall, dark, brooding male, who swooped me into his arms in our bedroom prior to carrying me all the way to the kitchen like some sort of mafia Superman, banishes whatever tameness he was temporarily holding to unleash the brutal beast within.
Dishes are knocked over during his swift repositioning of me onto my back yet there isn’t a second to acknowledge the mess he’s making. Each time my mouth seems to be given a moment of reprieve because his has wandered off to taste my neck or collarbone, it’s promptly covered again. His tongue filching my words, my thoughts, my fucking oxygen right out of me with no remorse.
The silk robe that kept my bare chest covered from the doctor meets the same floor fate as the plate that we were sharing just a minute ago. While I feel like I have barely any room to maneuver, Nero repeatedly proves me wrong, removing all barriers that stand between him and being buried deep.
I somehow manage to steal a gasp on his first thrust, a sound that spurs the ones to follow to be given at a faster speed. He slams into me over and over and over again causing my back to slap against the hard surface and my knees to bump into the underside of the table. Wetness leaks past his swollen shaft to slide down onto our thighs, sealing us together in what has become one of my favorite ways. Moans steadily grow louder and needier in spite of his endless pursuit to imprison them with his tongue. My slick walls struggle to stretch to accommodate the pace as much as the pounding that’s being delivered; however, I never insist he stops.