Hate Mail (Paper Cuts #1) Read Online Winter Renshaw

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire, Contemporary Tags Authors: Series: Paper Cuts Series by Winter Renshaw
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Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
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“I almost lost it to this one guy my senior year at Wellesley. I met him at this house party and we were having a good time, hitting it off. And he was nice. And hilarious. And cute. But the more I thought about it, the more I knew I didn’t want my first time to be with some random dude with beer breath. Plus, he kept calling me Cami, and I hate that. Took it as a sign. Also, he had a weird obsession with Modest Mouse. Was wearing a Modest Mouse t-shirt. Carried some Modest Mouse concert ticket stubs in his wallet. Even had a Modest Mouse ring tone and phone cover.”

“Sounds like you dodged a bullet that night.” His mouth lifts at the side as he drags his fingertip over it. He’s giving me that look again, the one where I can’t tell if he’s undressing me with his eyes or analyzing vulnerabilities I didn’t know I had.

Heat creeps up my neck, and I swallow hard.

In the background, Rose and some suit-wearing lothario are going at it in the bathroom of some nightclub. He props her up on the sink, tearing at her clothes as she throws her head back and groans like a sex-starved siren.

“It’s not really like that, is it?” I point to the screen. “It’s not that cringy and desperate, right?”

Slade sniffs a laugh. “Nah.”

“Good.”

Sex, to me, has always been this far-off concept. Other than paging to the smutty parts of drug store romance novels and feasting my eyes on sultry movie scenes over the years and listening to tales of my friends’ late-night exploits, it’s always been the kind of thing that everyone else did—except for me.

Strange to think that in less than six months, I’ll be kissing my virginity goodbye once and for all.

“Are you good?” I ask, propping my head against my hand. “In bed, I mean.”

Slade sniffs, insulted. “What kind of question is that?”

“What are you like? Are you attentive? Do you take your time? Or do you just do your thing, wait for her to fake an orgasm, and go on your way?”

“Sounds like you’ve seen way too many shitty Netflix movies.”

“That doesn’t answer my questions.”

“I don’t know.” His face scrunches as he ponders his response. “I take my time. I don’t rush. But I’m efficient.” He lifts a hand. “But not too efficient.” His tongue glides along his lips. “For me, it’s not over until we’re both satisfied. However long that takes.”

My heart trips over itself in my chest.

Is it possible that Slade, in all his self-serving glory, actually gives a damn about other people’s pleasure?

“So you always get your partner off?” I ask.

“Every time.”

“How do you know for sure?”

“For starters,” he begins, “when a woman comes, her entire body tightens. It’s an involuntary response. I can actually feel her tightening about my cock. Her muscles tense up, her breathing changes. Afterwards, her body will shake a little, especially when I pull out or if I run my fingers along her sensitive parts. She’ll tremble. That’s my test. That’s how I know.”

The thought of his fingers between my thighs fills my head before I have a chance to stop it, and I squirm in my seat. I expected him to rattle off some egotistical statement like, “A man just knows” or some bullshit like that, but damn.

I clear my throat, which is as tight and clenched as, well, the rest of me.

“Is this conversation making you uncomfortable?” he asks.

Was my squirming that obvious? I suppose it is to a man who notices everything …

“No,” I lie. It’s not making me uncomfortable so much as it’s making me think about him in ways I never thought I could before.

To be completely honest, the times when I’ve imagined the two of us consummating our marriage, it was always along the lines of us in missionary position, in the quiet dark, our gazes pointed in opposite directions while we got it over with in five minutes flat.

Never once did I imagine Slade had an attentive bone in his body.

“You surprised me, that’s all,” I say.

“In a good way, I hope.”

I ward off a smirk. All things considered, the man does have an ego the size of Jupiter and its eighty moons combined. Any more praise and his head might literally explode.

The movie scene playing across the room consists of Rose getting ready for a date with the guy she met at the bar. She wasn’t expecting to like him. He was supposed to be a revenge hookup and nothing more. Now she’s frantically shaving her legs and changing her dress every two seconds and cursing under her breath, trying to muster up the strength to cancel on him because she’s not in a place to dive into another relationship—but the sex is good. She reminds herself about the sex. And her roommate chimes in, reminding her that love and sex can be mutually exclusive if you allow them to be.


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