Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56672 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56672 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
7
JOSIE
“Ugh, no, no,” I say on a growl, my mouth opens on an o as I try to achieve the orgasm I’ve been working myself up to for the last five minutes. My vibrating toy is doing the majority while my fingers are tweaking one nipple then going to the other. The only problem? I’m dreaming about a man I cheated with on my then boyfriend more than a handful of years ago. Self-loathing is a bitch. So is seeing his face every time I have a one-on-one night with my favorite flesh-colored rabbit-style dildo. It has everything a girl could want or need—the petals working my clit, another attachment working on my back entrance. Add in the dildo doing a whirling motion, and I should have gotten off minutes ago, yet my eyes close, trying to imagine a different man. One who isn’t eighteen years older than me, who rock my world, giving me an orgasm without him knowing with only a kiss and a few well-placed movements of his hips, making me run away, fast and so far, I’m still unsure how to feel about him. All I know is he haunts me each time I’m alone in my bed.
My hips arch off the bed, heels planted in the mattress. The only noises in the house are the deep raspy breaths and the sound of my vibrator working me up. If only I could find another man to imagine, you know, like the celebrity who has a distinct Southern drawl, is tall and lean, and has a smile that could make a nun rethink taking a vow of celibacy. It doesn’t happen, though. Gone is the blond hunk, and in its place is no other than Trace Gaines with his dark hair, gray-colored eyes, and chiseled jaw. A man who exudes everything your mother tells you to run away from. Taller than me by a good eight inches, solid and sinewy in the muscle department, all from working hard on construction sites. God, the calloused pads of his fingers, the work-roughened palm of his hand as he squeezed my thigh, wrapping my leg around his waist, my hands digging into his pecs. His body heat is still firmly ingrained in mine.
“Oh God.” My toes curl as my mind moves on to other fantasies, like how if my hands moved lower, fingers sliding around the edge of his towel, one pull with my fingers would cause it to pool on the ground, a nudge of my panties to the side, and Trace would feel and see how wet I was. Shit, I’m in the same current state I was in all those years ago. Every single time he’s involved, playing in my imagination, this is how I am. No doubt that I’ll be changing the sheets judging how tonight is going. I wish I’d had the balls to go after more with him, to wrap my hand around his thick cock, to dare him to take me, uncaring that Wes was only a few walls and a door away. My eyes close. Gone is trying to think of anyone else. It’s Trace. There’s no denying myself that notion. His hand covering my mouth, our eyes locked, dress tucked into my bra, giving him a clear view of what he’s doing to my body.
“Trace.” Not one single person knows that I had a moment with Wes’s father—not my best friend, not my college roommate at the time, and I’ve never spoken his name out loud unless I’m by myself. I flip the switch on my vibrator, pushing it deeper inside my body, imagining it’s Trace bottoming out inside me. God, what I wouldn’t give if it was actually his body on top of mine, forcing my legs up and over his firm shoulders, feeling how our slick skin slides along one another with every deep push of his hips. And in my mind, it’s his mouth on my nipple, sucking the turgid tip so deeply I can feel it blaze a path down to my clit. Finally letting go, my body succumbs to my orgasm, my center clenches around the toy, my ass sucks at the skinnier version, and my clit thrums in happiness.
My arms drop by my sides, body replete after the mind-alternating desire. Never mind that I’m literally lying in a pile of wetness. It was totally worth it. I should know better than to think about anyone else than Trace Gaines when I’m in the throes of self-pleasure. Maybe now that I’ve worn myself out, I can finally sleep. Before I whipped out my toy, I endured hours of annoyance, irritated, hot, flustered, and it wasn’t because of my current state. I tried everything to fall asleep—counting sheep, counting backwards from one hundred to one, going as far as to ask Alexa to play the sound machine option. My eyes are starting to droop, finally, since the display tells me it’s two o’clock in the morning. I’m going to be in hell when the sun comes up. I already know my self-imposed schedule of sitting my ass down and at my desk, coffee, water, and fizzy lemon water within reach, is not going to happen.