Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
And it’s barreling toward me. Heat roars through my body. Bliss knocks on my door.
And this man eats me like it’s the Fourth of July carnival and he’s entered a pie-eating contest.
He doesn’t hold back.
He’s all in, kissing and sucking and consuming my wetness till pleasure tightens, coils, then bursts.
“Oh god,” I cry out, as an orgasm slams into me like a wave against the ocean shore, then crashes beautifully, powerfully, before it rolls out to sea.
I don’t know how long it lasts, but a minute later, I’m panting, murmuring, lying next to him. “I’m going to need some new theories.”
“That so?” he asks, stroking my hair.
“Yeah. Men who return sex toys and read all about them perform better than one.”
“Better than a toy? That’s high praise,” he says.
“The highest,” I say, then roll to my side, my hand exploring his firm abs. “Mmm. I think it’s my turn now, Mister Cocktail.”
And right as my fingertips reach his jeans, an idea pops, fully formed in my head. What if our idea that we played around with earlier turned into a business? “We should do a chocolate and cocktails pop-up shop.”
He cracks up. “Did you just come up with a business idea before you’re about to free my dick?”
“Well, your cock is very inspiring,” I say as I run my hand along the ridge of his erection. “Mojitos and martinis.”
“Truffles and toffee,” he says, getting into it.
“We could do taste tests,” I say.
“Theme nights. I can see the marketing now.”
“Yes!” I rub a little harder. “They do go together.”
“Like your hand on my cock,” he says, then lets out a long groan.
But before I can finally unzip his jeans, my phone rings. Amanda’s calling.
8
SPECIAL EDITION
Elodie
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Navarro,” Amanda says in the doorway of the pink duplex with artfully arranged plants lining the railing on the little porch of her friend’s home.
Amanda’s purple backpack is slung on her shoulder, a new friendship bracelet on her wrist with gold beads forming the words make art.
Ally’s mom—Stella—shoots Amanda a sympathetic look from behind her trendy electric-blue glasses that frame wise brown eyes. “You don’t have to apologize. Just be sure to drink plenty of water.”
“And walk around if you need to,” Ally chimes in from next to her mom, a little mini-me with matching glasses and equally good advice. “Don’t forget what we read—it’s totally normal the first time a vegetarian eats meat. So don’t worry about it.”
“You’ll feel better soon. It’s just that your body uses different digestive enzymes for meat, and you’re not used to that,” Stella offers, and dear god, she’s a mom nurse now. “Take a digestive aid if you need to.”
“Thank you for all this,” I say, overwhelmed but grateful. My head pings with information. Stella’s already researched the problem and is offering advice. Meanwhile, I’ve barely said a word since I arrived and I’d spent the ride over hoping my panties dried while I freaked out that Amanda would have to go to the ER to get her stomach pumped after accidentally eating meat for the first time in her life.
Amanda offers the superhero mom a weak smile. “I’m sure your veggie burgers are really, really good.”
“Next time. You have an open invitation,” Stella says.
“Thanks,” Amanda says, then waves goodbye to her friend.
Ally offers a goodbye wave in return, her make art bracelet slipping down the tanned skin of her wrist.
“Thanks again for having her over,” I say to Stella. “I’m really sorry it didn’t work out. Ally’s welcome at our house anytime.” I think that’s what you’re supposed to say when a sleepover snafu happens.
“Text me? Let me know how she’s feeling tomorrow,” Stella adds.
Right, right. That’s what you say. “Of course. Absolutely. Thanks again.”
“Don’t forget—a digestive aid if she needs one,” the superhero calls out.
“On it!”
With a wince, Amanda sets her hand on her stomach. I walk her down the steps, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as we head to the waiting Lyft, the same one that brought me here in a flash, weaving expertly through Friday night traffic. From Lyft drivers to ultra moms, I’m surrounded by rock stars at their jobs.
“I only barfed once,” Amanda says, trying hard to be strong.
“That’s good,” I say, then worry digs into me. “Do you need to throw up again?”
She shakes her head. “I feel okay now.”
But okay isn’t how you want to feel when you stay at a friend’s house. “You’ll be better soon.”
“I just can’t believe I took the wrong burger,” she says, embarrassment thick in her voice as we reach the car while she explains again that it was a mix-up. The burgers on the plate all looked the same so she snagged a meat one rather than the special veggie one for the vegetarian, like our parents were after they had Amanda.