Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 66977 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66977 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
“Or unconscious, baby. You stomp your feet like an elephant alertin’ the herd to poachers.”
“Ohhhh…just shut up and get naked already!” I squeak in a flustered frenzy.
Slater haughtily chuckles, hooks his thumbs in his boxer briefs, and banishes them to his ankles in such a fluid motion it makes me wonder if there was a lesson in the military about stripping efficiently.
Distracted by him and all of his naked, tan glory leaves me open for an attack I probably should’ve expected.
And would’ve expected had I not been eye fucking my best friend the way I want him to actually be fucking me.
One second I’m contemplating tucking my tongue back into my mouth and the next I’m mere inches away from the floor to ceiling windows, facing the city skyline, with both of his arms firmly locked around my chest, trapping my arms to my frame. While I know feeling safe isn’t his intent at this very moment, it’s exactly what I feel.
It’s what I always feel when I’m with him.
Against him.
“This is an important hold to know how to get out of, Angel Cake,” he purrs, corn flower blue lettering creeping along the shell of my ear and the rim of my glasses.
Maneuvering my face over my shoulder is done just enough to coo my retort, “Unless you’re the one doing the holding, Cowboy.”
Gravelly groans are the only noise that precede one set of fingers latching onto the front of my sports bra.
Yanking it down.
Forcing my tits to sloppily spill over.
Any chance of gasping is cut off by his hands grabbing my hands and slamming them on the glass. “Don’t. Move.”
“Yes, Slater,” is instantly whispered in return.
More groans liberate themselves except these are coated in gratitude.
So, while sex may not be the subject I am most versed in – thankfully that seems to be changing – I have learned that some men really, really enjoy hearing their name not only screamed but simply spoken.
Almost as if that alone is enough to get things swelling.
Slater’s shaft knocking against me verifies the observation seconds prior to goosebumps multiplying across my skin as his fingertips smoothly glide themselves the lengths of my arms, taking out time to circle the tiny Blink-182 tattoo that hides in the fold of my right elbow and the random beauty marks near my left shoulder.
The unhurried tracing of my trembling frame continues, now following the stretch of my spine, an action that causes him to quietly confess, “Fuck, I want my name dancing around these notes, baby.” He unexpectedly spreads his digits to dig into my flesh. “Me always on you.” His fingers possessively flex. “Forever.”
I’m tempted to look over my shoulder to reply, yet I recall my instructions and seek his reflection in the glass instead. “Me too.”
Another low, dark grumble is granted freedom at the same time his hands finally reach the band of my sleep shorts. Once there, Slater teasingly skims them along the rim, back to front, front to back, back and down the crack of my ass, devilishly chortling during my obvious struggle not to lean into the delicious caresses.
Did he take a class on sexual warfare?
Is there a class on sexual warfare?
Is that how spies and other undercover agents get so good at sexpionage?
Ohmygod, is he so good at this torture because this is what he “dabbled in” during his transition from the PJs to HE?!
Lowering my bottoms to the ground is a swift process; however, resuming his standing position is one that my boyfriend purposely makes painfully slow. Puffs of hot air searing the skin on the back of my knees is enough on its own to cause my soaking wet muscles to throb yet the feeling of his teeth savagely scraping the territory upward has them tightening to the point I worry I might accidently snap his dick in two when he slides inside.
If he ever slides inside.
I’m now concerned that this whole situation is another self-defense lesson that I am epically failing.
Gentle nuzzles of his nose and scruff covered cheeks begin on the outside of my thighs, wordlessly ending my worries.
Reminding me that taking his time isn’t about making me miserable.
It’s about loving me.
Worshipping me.
Letting me physically feel as wanted and as powerful as he verbally insists that I am.
All of a sudden, the very tip of Slater’s tongue drags itself along the curve of my ass cheek, tempting my figure to tense, to shy away from having him openly lick me somewhere so unusual, so typically scoffed at, but I don’t.
I maintain my still stance.
Continue to show him my dedication.
My ability to follow his orders.
Prove how I trust his word.
Him.
How he can trust me.
Mine.
“Such a good fuckin’ girl for me…” my boyfriend hungrily murmurs against the skin, vibrations making me wetter.
Needier.
“Can you be a filthy one?” The lower octave being used is carnal. Depraved. “Spread those legs. Show me how you fuckin’ drip for me.”