Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 113473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Keeping his eyes straight ahead on the door, he released himself long enough to spit in his palm before once again giving himself a good jerk.
Fuck yes.
He only got part of what he needed last night, but he didn’t get everything.
He normally used the memory of fucking Rebecca’s red-striped ass as jack off material, but for some reason, he was having a hard time concentrating on that. Instead, his mind kept going back to Red wearing his T-shirt. Then peeling it off slowly and touching and squeezing her own tits which were now a little bigger and heavier than when he first saw her naked.
They weren’t huge because she was still way thinner than she should be, but they weren’t anything to complain about. He imagined himself painting white lines of cum over them instead of creating red stripes on the ivory curves of her ass.
In his fantasy she smeared his cum all over her tits, wearing a wicked smile, and then licked her fingers clean.
Fuck yeah.
Fuck... those lips sucking on her own fingers, tasting his load. Moaning...
Then giving him an unspoken invitation as she moved to get into that shower. She waited, tossing her red hair, looking over her slender shoulder, beckoning, wanting him to follow her in.
But he didn’t. He only wanted to watch.
She gave him a show as she soaped herself up, touching herself everywhere. Especially that dark red bush between her thighs. A couple of her fingers disappearing into that fiery patch.
Jesus.
“Red,” he groaned, his eyes closing, his fist moving faster. He brushed his palm over the head, gathering the precum and using it as more lube along his throbbing dick. He jerked faster, harder, not being gentle at all. He didn’t want it to be gentle, he wanted it to be quick.
But he needed to keep quiet, too.
Then he was back in that bathroom with her. Her long red hair now soaked and super dark as it stuck to her pale skin, water sliding down her tits and off her puckered nipples. The ones she twisted between her fingers. Her mouth opened and little whimpers escaped that got him all the way to his balls.
He squeezed the root of his dick, making a tight ring with two fingers, bringing out every vein, while his other hand pumped faster.
“Touch yourself,” he whispered. “That’s it, baby. Just like that. Fuck,” he groaned. “Fuck yeah. Twist them harder. Yeah. Make it hurt. Show me how much you like that.”
Red’s head was thrown back and her lips were wide open as she panted, the water running into her mouth and then back out over her chin like a waterfall. He wanted to cum on her face, in her mouth. On her tits. In her pussy.
He wanted to fuck her ass and fill it with his cum.
He wanted to mark her everywhere.
Make it so she smelled like him.
Belonged to him.
His hips shot up, his head tilted back and he groaned loudly as he milked his dick into his palm, catching all of the cum he wanted to give her.
But he couldn’t.
Instead, it was his own hand.
His own palm.
His own bed.
By himself.
It could never happen with her.
He couldn’t do what he wanted to do with her.
She couldn’t be his.
Even if she wasn’t broken, she could never handle him. Because he was broken, too.
There was sex. And then there was more.
He needed the “more” too often.
Unfortunately, Red could never give him that. Not with what she’d been through. He wouldn’t even lie to himself by thinking she’d be able to down the road. It took the right woman.
Even with the small glimpses of her he’d caught—of her true self, of how she would be if she was whole—he couldn’t see her ever doing anything he really needed.
Then he’d have to get it elsewhere.
Or get locked up like the animal he could be.
“Fuck,” he whispered and opened his eyes.
He rolled out of bed, his palm full of his hot, sticky cum. Searching the floor, he found one of his dirty socks. He snagged it and was wiping off his hand when the door opened.
He froze.
So did she.
She was wearing one of his shirts again, but this time had on some sort of loose cotton pants underneath it. The kind Stella had bought her with a panel on the front that would stretch as her belly grew.
Her gaze fell to the sock in his hand and then she walked right up to him, plucked it from his fingers, glanced at it for a second, went over to the overflowing laundry basket in the corner and tossed it on top.
He struggled to keep his expression blank.
“Is there somewhere I can do your laundry?”
What? That was the question she had? “No, baby, you ain’t doin’ my fuckin’ laundry.”
“Why? I have some of my own to do. Are there machines downstairs?”