Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 28432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 142(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 142(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
For the first time ever, I wanted a man to be bare, to feel what it would be like for him to come inside me instead of into the tip of a condom. It sucked that I had no right to ask that. I barely knew him. Me, the woman with the nickname 'Maneater’ was willing to do a whole lot of firsts with Tate. It didn’t happen, though. One night, and one night only, was what we agreed on. Our third round, we made it to the bed. It was slower, but that didn’t make it any less powerful. If anything, it was probably the most intense sex I’ve ever had in my life. Our eyes locked, my leg was thrown over his shoulder, his muscles working with every ebb and flow, my body rocking towards his. And now I’m completely fucked because men might say women have some kind of voodoo magic or a pussy lined in gold, but let me tell you, Tate must have a magical cock because I’ve yet to get over that night, and it’s making orgasming nearly impossible these days.
“Maybe the shower head will work tonight.” Something has to give. The irritation is making me annoyed with myself, and after the last six months, I absolutely know there’s only one man who will help me achieve my end goal to finally come. The only problem with that is I have no idea how to get in touch with him unless it’s through my brother-in-law, and absolutely no way will that happen. So, it looks like I’ll keep trying to take matters into my own hands, or use the shower head, it seems.
CHAPTER ONE
emily
“What’s wrong with you? You’ve been so irritable lately. Are you on your period?” my sister Kelsey asks me. She’s not wrong in asking. You see, I’m currently lying on the floor in our office in Beach Babe Boutique, staring at the ceiling. A month ago, I’d have been looking for a fling to cure this itch. That was until I came to the conclusion that I’m doomed when it comes to giving myself anything in the O department. He fucked me, literally and figuratively, too well apparently, because now I’m broken.
“No, I could only wish it were that, or maybe I don’t, then I’d be even hornier, wouldn’t I?” I’ve thought about breaking down and asking Kels and Deke for Tate’s number, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it, not yet at least.
“Okay, then that means you’re hangry. Get your butt up and let’s get food. I love you, but grumpy Em is not my favorite.” Leave it to my sister to speak the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
“That’s not it either. I’m going to tell you something, and you have to promise not to tell a soul. Not Deke, not the Hart’s, definitely not Nat and the other girls who work here.” I don’t move from my spot on the ground. My arm is up, and pinky finger is raised, giving her the universal code that a promise is a promise.
“Oh God, we haven’t done this since our teenage years. This must be big.” As soon as her finger wraps around mine, I pull her down until she gets the memo to lie down beside me, our heads together, pinky fingers still connected because that was our thing years ago. It didn’t matter if it was a promise not to tell our parents we skipped a class or about my first kiss with that boy named Grant in seventh grade. I remember going home talking to Kels, telling her, a boy stuck his tongue in my mouth. It was full of way too much saliva, and I was unprepared, not to mention gross out. Or that we were ganging up on our parents in order to get what we wanted.
“You’re going to laugh. I’ve been laughing at myself for six months now.” Not really because frustration overload in the orgasm department makes you pissed more than happy.
“It can’t be that bad. Seriously, tell me what’s wrong, Em.” Now my older sister sounds worried, as if it’s something terrible.
“I hooked up with Tate at your wedding, and now I’m broken. He literally broke my vagina. Nothing works. No toys, and you know my plethora is huge, not my fingers, or my shower head,” I ramble so fast, almost tying all the words together, that I’m pretty sure she doesn’t understand them. In fact, a small, teeny tiny part of me kind of hopes she didn’t. I know my sister to a fault. She’s happy, and now she wants everyone around her to be happy.
“Wait, let me process this for a minute.” Those are her words. She’s not pissed, upset, sad, happy, or gleeful. She needs to think about it. I should have known this would be the case. Where I’m the free bird, speak before I think, ready to seek out any and all adventures, she’s a bit more reserved.