Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 89536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
True looks up at me, and I try to read the expression on her face, the expression in her eyes as she watches me move over her.
It’s as if she wants to say something, but no words can escape her lips because they’re parted. The kind of parted lips that come from being aroused and turned on and lost in the throes of passion.
Eyes slightly glazed over.
Cheeks red, flushed from her rising heartbeat.
I’m sure I look almost the same way in her eyes.
Everything about this moment has gone from fun dry-fucking to serious, passionate…
Something.
I don’t know because I can’t put my finger on it, but the mood has definitely changed. It’s charged.
Electric.
We’re not even worried in the least that her older brother is going to come storming down the hall and knock on the door, because we’re lost in each other.
I can see it and I can feel it.
Up and down.
Up.
Down.
Skin to skin.
Fuck, this body of hers.
It was meant for me.
Made for me, even.
I think I’m romantic because of being raised by all women, if you don’t include my father, who is not actually a woman. Ha ha. But you get what I’m saying. Because I grew up with six sisters and one mother, which is seven women, there was no way—no chance in hell I was escaping from that household anything short of a male feminist.
Every holiday was a lesson in the importance of meeting someone’s emotional needs—dinner reservations and small tokens of affection.
Chocolates for Valentine’s Day. Gifts for Christmas. Cards for birthdays, maybe flowers. All things I learned were important to my sisters, so maybe they were important to someone I might want in my life.
I know I need to show that someone how I feel.
Watching my sisters go through heartbreak with every shitty boyfriend. Listening to my mother lecture them on the way they deserve to be treated by a man. Listening to them lecture me on the way to treat a woman.
So the romance thing? Easy.
If that’s the type of man True Wallace wants in her life—something I have yet to discover—then she needs to look no further than me. I am a Renaissance man, born to please my woman.
Happy wife, happy life.
Just ask my father how he’s sustained several decades with my mother with very few fights—that I can remember, anyway. No knock-down-drag-out fights that some couples have. Certainly having seven children…which included six girls…would have caused some fights, yeah?
But no, not really.
Arguments, yes.
Fights? Eh, hardly.
Then again, Mom comes from a family with three girls and two boys, which means my aunts are often all up in my parents’ business. Which means any arguments or fights Mom and Dad had? Are and were going to involve his wife’s sisters.
There’s no getting around it.
Dad isn’t an idiot.
No man wants to fight with his wife and her sisters all at the same time because they can’t keep their nose out of each other’s business—and certainly not out of his.
The last thing he ever wanted was Aunt Zoila, Aunt Gabriella, and/or Aunt Mia coming to Mom’s rescue during an argument. What sane man wants to argue with four women at once?
It’s bad enough that Dad has six daughters.
They kept trying and trying until they had a son, then Gloria was unplanned, and well—none of us would have it any differently.
“Eres tan hermosa,” I whisper, my cock hard and balls heavy. “You’re so beautiful.”
“I don’t want to wait anymore, babe. Stick it in.”
I falter.
Stick it in?
Do women say shit like that?
Apparently, they do, or maybe it’s just women with two dickhead brothers who have no filter.
I want what my parents have: years-long—decades-long commitment. They laugh and love and enjoy spending time together, and you cannot fake that for that long. What they have is real, and what they have is what I want.
And I want that with True Wallace.
This is no longer just about sex or the baby.
I’m not even mad about how sappy I sound in my head right now. And I’m about to give her what she wants.
I have a feeling that once True Wallace completely lets her guard down with me, she’s going to be the partner I’ve been looking for my whole life. Granted, it’s only been twenty-nine years, but still.
A guy can dream big, can’t he?
Carefully, I reach between our bodies and, using one hand, grab hold of my cock to ease the tip into her wet slit. Inch by inch and goddamn it, it feels good. Heaven on earth.
Stop romanticizing this, dude. She called you to bang her; she’s not looking for a ring.
“Faster.” True’s demand wakes me from my daydream.
No, not a daydream—fantasy.
Having her as my girlfriend is a freaking fantasy.
“Yes…” she moans. “Feels sooo good.”
Faster faster, more, more, more.
I give it to her, panting like a lovesick dog, breaking out into an actual sweat. Me, a guy who can run miles in minutes with no problem. What the actual fu—