Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 26630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 133(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 133(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
It’s the single hottest thing I’ve ever experienced.
Trey, of course, immediately proves me wrong by making it even fucking hotter.
I’m leaning forward to watch him, ears straining in case he says anything else. He shifts in his sleep and the blanket drops to the floor, giving me an insane view of abs and abs and—oh, did I mention—abs. I might be drooling, but I don’t know because I can’t think or focus on anything else except him.
Then his hand moves.
I think I might faint.
While he is shirtless, he’s not entirely naked, which is a saving grace because that might kill me. Still, the black cotton pajama shorts aren’t much better because they do nothing to hide the huge, hard outline of him beneath the waistband. Holy. Shit. He’s…aroused.
Not just that, he’s so aroused that, even in sleep, his palm finds his cock over the fabric, rubbing and stroking himself.
“God. Talia.”
I grip the edge of the counter, my knees going weak, my body threatening to collapse, wetness flooding my core. I squeeze my thighs together, not used to feeling like this over anyone. I’ve never been so turned on in my life.
Trey—hot as fuck, grumpy but kind, literally my stepbrother Trey—is touching himself to thoughts of me.
I’m halfway to melting into a puddle on the kitchen floor, but somehow my body manages to follow the instinctual demand to get closer to him.
Problem is, my legs are still weak, and I’m leaning on the counter for support. When I take a step, my hands move along the counter’s edge, and my arm hits the side of my coffee mug, sending it crashing over the side and onto the floor.
Trey jolts awake in an instant, leaping to his feet with his eyes wide and fists balled, going from deep sleep to ready to fight in the split second it takes my brain to register what’s happening. My heartbeat soars as my gaze flicks between the shattered, wet mess on the floor and … oh, holy mother of God.
My eyes snare on Trey, body on display fully now as he stands by the sofa, no longer obscured by bad angles and sleep, in all his shirtless glory. Abs, pecs, biceps, even his damn forearms. Every inch of him is carved from stone, including the rock-hard length tenting his pajama pants. Low-slung pajama pants that draw my attention to the V of muscles at his hips that I suddenly have the burning desire to trace with my tongue. Screw waffles, I want him for breakfast. I swear my mouth’s actually watering.
Plus, besides the obvious hotness, Trey looks ready to fight. To defend. His stormy eyes assess every inch of the room, body language displaying just how ready he is to leap into a fight. I can’t help but wonder what it would look like, to see him grapple with someone in my defense.
It takes a few seconds for Trey to register that there is, in fact, no threat except my own clumsiness, his eyes finding the broken cup on the floor at my feet. Then his gaze flicks to mine as his shoulders drop in relief, his fists uncurling, fingers flexing and making the veins in his forearms stand out.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice gruff and thick from sleep, sending shivers through me.
I do my best to hide my reaction, already knowing I’m bright red with embarrassment about the coffee and my obvious ogling. I nod, tongue producing a bunch of incoherent noises that barely string together into a sentence. “S-sorry, I was just, um, I didn’t mean to wake you. I mean, I thought we could eat breakfast … Waffles! I was making waffles!”
Trey’s eyebrows draw together as he surveys me. “You look flushed, like you’ve been for a run. Making waffles can’t be that strenuous?”
At that, my flush gets about ten times worse. How am I supposed to answer that? Oh, no, my flush is actually from imagining my stepbrother bending me over this counter and showing me what sex could be like.
Yeah, no. I don’t realize my gaze has dropped until his follows, and we’re both staring at the way his cock strains in his pants, a damp patch darkening the fabric. Images of him stroking himself while saying my name replay in my head, and I can feel my own panties get damp. I squeeze my thighs together, mind scrambled.
Before I can attempt an explanation, Trey turns on his heel and walks out of the room. A minute later, the sound of the shower turning on reaches my ears. My breath comes a little easier even though my brain very helpfully offers up suggestions of what he looks like up there, naked and wet under the spray.
I shake my head, trying to clear the thoughts, and turn my focus to cleaning up my mess and restarting the waffles. By the time Trey returns, fully clothed thankfully, I’ve made a whole array of toppings—chopped fruit, honey, caramelized apples—and set out the full spread of waffles and coffee on the kitchen island.