Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
“Rafe,” I groan. His name is everything I want. He is everything I want.
“Say my name again,” he demands.
“Rafe,” I say, sensual and carnal, like the man who owns me.
He fucks me harder. His other hand wraps tightly around my ass and grips me so possessively, he’ll leave marks.
“Mine,” he growls. “You’re fucking mine, Gunnar.”
“I’m yours,” I grunt. My dick twitches, and an electric charge ricochets through all my cells, tripping my wires.
“Want to come,” I grunt. I reach for my cock, but he bats my hand away.
“I’ll get you there,” Rafe tells me in a stern and terribly sexy voice, then lets go of my shoulder and strokes me.
He fucks me fearlessly, jerks me mercilessly, and destroys my hold on reality. My orgasm storms my body. My brain short-circuits, and I come harder than I ever have before.
I spin out, my world blurring into nothing but him and me and bliss as my climax seizes my senses.
Then, with a deep thrust, Rafe twitches inside me. He shudders and grunts, “Yes. God. You.”
You.
The way he says it is savage and sexy and makes me feel like I’m his.
But I’m not.
Not really.
We’re just playing a very filthy game.
35
MY SHAMELESS CONFESSION
Gunnar
I thought baseball wrung out my body. But baseball has nothing on this man.
After my first—and sadly, my last—good, hard fucking from Rafe Rodman, I’m exhausted in all new ways. I’m sore all over. But I’m also tremendously hungry. We take a luxurious shower in his temple of a bathroom, then I pull on the purple briefs with the red devil on the crotch, and I’m about to make a dinner plan when I decide to tease Rafe.
I stride into the bedroom where he’s grabbing clothes from the top drawer of his bureau.
“Bonus show for you,” I say to the man, then give him a sultry look and show off my barely-there clothes.
He hums his approval. “Yes, those were indeed made for you,” he says.
I think that’s literal. “Does that mean I get to take them home? As a keepsake?”
“They’re yours, Gunnar. Of course I want you to have them.” He sounds so earnest, and poignant too.
It stings my heart. On the one hand, it’s a sexy memento. On the other hand, it’s fucking underwear. “I’d actually rather have something besides underwear to remember you by,” I say drily.
He closes the distance, comes up to me and cups my chin. “I care deeply about what I do. You inspired me. You inspired these. Please know when I say I had them made for you that it means something to me,” he says, vulnerable in new ways.
Well, shit. I was a dick.
Rafe’s a designer. This is his passion, making people look good and sexy.
“Sorry. I sounded callous.” I glance down at the design and add, “I love them.” Feeling daring, I press a kiss to those lush lips of his.
When the kiss ends, he pulls on a pair of soft black pants.
And wow.
Rafe should be a model for low-slung pajama pants. This pair hangs seductively on his hips, showing off his V and his abs.
“I think those pants are my new obsession,” I say, licking my lips as I stare wantonly. “Just look at you.”
“I’m glad you approve,” he says.
My stomach rumbles. “I’d approve of food too.”
He stares sharply at me. “Did you think I wouldn’t feed you after I fucked you?”
“Better after than before,” I say with a wink as we head out of his bedroom. “I haven’t eaten all day, and I’m hungry as fuck.”
He tips his forehead to the living room. “Let’s order something,” he says. Then, with a curious look on his face, he asks, “Unless you want to go out? In your briefs?” His eyes roam up and down my body, the fucking flirt.
“Nah, let’s stay in, and I’ll torture you by wearing next to nothing.”
“Oh, trust me, it is only incredibly sexy torture seeing you walk around my home wearing hardly anything.”
But as I walk away from him, I’m acutely aware that his fantasy of me and his designs doesn’t have an encore.
After midnight, we sit at the island counter in his sleek, modern kitchen, polishing off banchan and bibimbap from a Korean place he loves. I indulge in a beer, and we talk, the topic turning to our families after I tell him Mom and Charlie came to the game with the Comets.
“How did she enjoy New York?” Rafe asks.
“Loved it. It was perfect—food, baseball, and The Met,” I reply. He raises an eyebrow skeptically, and I confess sheepishly, “Well, Mom likes art and I like making her happy.”
“Sounds as though you did,” he says.
I’m comfortable enough to ask about his parents, and he’s comfortable enough to answer.
“They’ve been gone a decade now,” Rafe says. “Which doesn’t seem possible.”
“You still miss them?” I ask, though I can see that he does.