Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 130(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 130(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
My mouth salivates from the few glimpses I got of her in my office when her legs were practically spread open, in my car when she was moaning. Only it was probably due to pain, and not the good kind of pain either. Replaying mortgage rates, football stats, or visualizing the multitude of ways I was going to kill my brother didn’t help. My back is on the bench, shirt off, arms raised above my head, ready to lift the bar with weights on each side in an attempt to keep my cock from throbbing. Not that it’s doing any good. The last image is permanently seared into my head, though. She kicked the sheets off her, apparently getting hot with the early morning sun shining through the open windows. I didn’t close the curtains, afraid I’d fall asleep and not know if she woke up disoriented. That came to an abrupt stop at about six o’clock this morning. Her dress was up to the midsection of her stomach, legs open, hand lying on her lower abdomen, fingers so close the edge of her lace panties, I was up and out of my chair, getting a closer look even though I know I shouldn’t. In that moment, I was more like my brother than I cared to admit. As I smelled the sweetness that was Cadence, I knocked myself out of my reverie in case she came awake and saw me leering over her prone body.
I moved as fast as I could and tore off the remainder of my suit. I could have taken my cock out, fisted it, and jacked off at that very moment. The reason I didn’t besides being a glutton for punishment is that it didn’t sit right with me, not if she was willingly giving herself to me for money. What I can’t wrap my head around is why, after the two hours I put into my workout, my hands have dropped from the barbell above my head and are moving to my naked chest as I visualize Cadence’s hands being mine. Green hopeful eyes appear between my spread legs, full red-stained lips, and I watch as the tips of her fingers slide down, touching every muscle along the way until it’s those red-painted nails of hers pulling at the waistband of my sweatpants. My head goes back. I’m thankful for the bench as the thought of Cadence takes over even though it’s my hand palming my cock, thumb gliding over the tip, taking the pre-cum to use as lube.
“Fuck.” My eyes close on their own accord, keeping the fantasy rolling through, wishing it were wetness from her mouth or her cunt. I move my hand from root to top, twisting it along the way. If Cadence were here and shit weren’t the way it currently is, her injured, me worried she’d sell herself to anyone other than now me, I’d talk to Cadence the entire time, telling her, showing her, teaching her exactly what I want and expect from the woman who’s decided to consume a man who only ever wanted to chase after the dollar. Those thoughts are gone. I’m fucked in the head salivating over a woman I’ll never have. That doesn’t mean I won’t enjoy the fantasy of her eyes glued to mine, those lips of hers surrounding the tip of my cock as she slowly suckles it, tongue on the underside tracing the vein when she finally slides down the length, unable to take me balls deep without choking. Further proving to me that when she tried to tell me something, that maybe it’s what I wanted to hear after all. My hips thrust up, hand gripping myself tighter, feeling the sensation that I’m about to come all over my naked chest, wishing it were Cadence’s face, tits, or pussy I was spraying my cum all over.
“I’m so fucking fucked,” I tell my weight room, chest heaving, sweat consuming my body. There’s no way I’m going to let Cadence walk out of here without hearing what she has to say.
THIRTEEN
Cadence
All of the bravado I talked myself up to has fallen to the wayside, the reason for that being, when you wobble down the hallway, taking in the masterpiece of a home such as this, it’s downright eye opening. I washed my face, albeit as gently as I could, which still didn’t help the bruising, and I’m sure it will be impossible to hide with makeup come Monday morning. I attempt to use my bad foot, holding on to the wall for purchase, cringing inside because walls are not meant for handrails. Even after washing my hands, oils will most definitely leave handprints if you’re not careful. Which is near impossible because the slightest pressure on my ankle has me breathing through some wicked pain, heightening my headache, and has me crying out in pain a few steps in.