All I Am Drew’s Story Read Online Jodi Ellen Malpas (This Man #3.5)

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, BDSM, Erotic, Romance Tags Authors: Series: This Man Series by Jodi Ellen Malpas
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Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
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“Drew,” she murmurs, short of breath.

I reach up and yank off her blindfold, suddenly desperate to see those eyes. The shards of light that spill the second she blinks them open blinds me. She breathes in my face, her insides hugging my cock, pulling me deeper. So much deeper. Deeper into her body, and deeper into her world.

Our gazes are locked as I roll my hips, reaching for the backs of her thighs and pulling them up to my waist. Her bound hands hook over my neck. There’s so much energy radiating from her eyes, I’m convinced she must be plugged into the sun. Intensity, heat, vivid color—it’s all shining on me, lighting up the room. Lighting up me.

I rock into her gently, mindful of the harsh metal cage she’s shackled to. And with each stroke, I gasp. With each retreat, I swallow. Our ragged breaths echo around us, steeped in a craving that’s palpable. Clenching around me, she drops her head back, keeping her eyes on mine, her arms resting lightly on my shoulders as I carry us toward oblivion.

It’s like the calm before the storm, the center of a tornado. Silent but deafening, calm but deadly. I choke when it hits me, my skin so sensitive, my teeth gritting to get me through it. Hot cum fills her and she stiffens in my hold, her thighs crushing me between them. She rides the waves of her release silently, rolling against my body, her neck losing all power to keep her head up. Our foreheads meet halfway, our eyes closing for a few breathless moments.

My breathing still shot, I slip out of her, unable to hold back a hiss as her flesh strokes my sensitive cock. I lower her to her feet, unfasten and unravel the chains from her body as she watches me, and then drop them in a pile at her feet.

I pull my jeans and T-shirt on, and slip my feet into my shoes, turning toward her. She hasn’t moved a muscle, her eyes watching my every move as I approach slowly and dip, placing a light kiss on the corner of her mouth.

Then I walk out.

Chapter 8

The sky is gray as I head to work Friday morning, casting a dreary shadow across London, and, just my luck, the heavens open when I’m halfway from the car park to my office.

Umbrellas spring up around me as I break into a run, dodging the puddles and people, my body instantly heavy from the water my suit is holding. I burst into the office and drop my briefcase. “Fucking weather,” I mutter, shrugging my jacket off. I’m soaked through, my white shirt sticking to my torso.

“Morning.”

I look up to find Andrea staring at my chest. Every muscle is defined through the thin material of my shirt, and though not shy of my body, I hurry to the men’s room.

“Give me ten minutes,” I call, shutting the door behind me. I go straight to the hand dryer and turn the nozzle onto my chest, blasting myself with hot air. The mirror reflects back a drowned rat of a man, his attire crumpled, his hair sodden and falling all over his face. “Great start to the day.” I give up. I look trashed, my usually impeccable facade pretty damn shameful.

Once settled at my desk, I stare at my phone, mentally warning myself not to. Don’t call Hux. I don’t need or want to know if Raya’s been back. “Fuck it.” I bow to my relenting curiosity and swipe up my mobile. There’s no discreet way of asking, so I just go right ahead and question Cole whether Raya’s been there again. I hold my breath waiting for his answer. And the air gushes out when he tells me no. No, she hasn’t. I don’t want to be relieved, but I’m learning quickly that controlling what I want is pointless where Raya’s concerned.

“Thanks, Cole.” I hang up as Andrea swans in, looking chirpy.

“I have good news,” she tells me, taking a seat opposite.

“Good. Get my day back on track.”

“The Georgian in West London. I have a bite. Young, single professional. Annie Ryan. She’s been looking for months. I think this might be right up her street. I’m showing her around later today.”

“Sell hard.”

“She’s an architect. She’ll have the vision that other buyers have lacked.”

“Still, sell hard.”

She rummages through the papers in her lap. “Here are the details for Miss Rivers’s place.” A file slides across the desk before me, but I barely look. I sent Andrea to take the pictures, telling myself I needed to stay away. Cold and detached.

“Have they been posted online?” I ask, looking busy at my computer.

“Yep. We’ve had a few viewings already and another this evening with a Mr. Watts. He’s got piles of cash and impatient with it.”


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