Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97944 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97944 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
“Shit.”
“Don’t you dare fucking stop—”
He slips his hand into my jeans and slides a thick finger inside me, and I forget all about my shoulder.
“This for him?” He pushes deeper. “Is that what gets you off? Well-dressed and cute?” Pulling out, he adds a second finger.
“Fuck you,” I hiss.
Dragging his tongue down my neck, he stops at my breast, sucking my nipple through my shirt. He bites down, and my back arches. I want to feed him lies, tell him this is doing nothing for me, but my body is on fire, trembling under his touch. He grips the waist of my jeans, unsnapping the button and pulling down the zipper. Tugging them and my underwear off, he tosses them across the room. I lift my head as he clamps his lips around my clit and sucks hard.
“Oh, fuck,” I moan as his tongue lashes against my heat. He doesn’t tease me. He devours me. Two fingers slide past my slick folds. My chest rises, and my lips part as my head falls back. He takes and takes with his fingers and greedy tongue until I can’t see straight.
“Who you thinkin’ about?” he asks, his voice vibrating against my clit. “Whose tongue you thinkin’ about fuckin’ you?” My walls start to spasm with each filthy question. “Fucking tell me—”
“You,” I breathe out. “I’m thinking about you.”
His tongue and fingers are gone. Within seconds, his jeans are pushed beneath his ass, and his cock is thrusting into my swollen cunt. I can’t hold back as he pounds into me, filling me to the hilt and pulling back before powering into me again. “That’s right, baby. Let go.” My pussy clenches around him, and he digs his fingers into my hair, forcing me to look at him. “Say my name when you come. Hear me?”
I want to defy him, but he fucks me so deep his name comes out in a hoarse moan before I can stop myself. His grip on my hair tightens as he thrusts one last time, holding his cock in place as it pulses inside me.
I can’t catch my breath. I’m not sure I ever will. Before I can speak, Tate pulls out, and his weight is gone. The next sound I hear is the slamming of my bedroom door.
Chapter twelve
Mindy
After my parents died, my life became a blur. Years passed before I was able to pull my head out of the sand and accept they had really left me, taking my dreams with them. I can’t fault them. They didn’t ask to be hit head-on by a fuck-wad teenager. But they also hadn’t acknowledged things like that could happen and had no plan on how to protect me if they did. I’d been angry at them. Forced into a new life, all my choices taken away, losing all sense of faith.
I remember the dance studio just being there one day and gone the next. The house I grew up in was sold to another family. I’d only been able to bring a small suitcase with minimal photos and sentimental items. If I had known that would be the last moments I had there, I would have eaten the last piece of pie in the refrigerator my mom had made days prior. Taken one more whiff of my dad’s cologne to memorize his smell. I would have slammed my bedroom door for the hell of it because it would be the last time I could.
Dance became part of my past, my foster parents claiming they didn’t have the money. Instead, I continued teaching myself, allowing the memories of my mother to play in my head. I’d spent so much time watching her, every routine had been ingrained in me. I’d push myself until my feet bled and still wouldn’t stop. And once I turned eighteen, I’d be awarded the money my parents had saved for me to enroll in a dance school. All the way in New York. Just like my mother. I applied to all the schools that didn’t require an enrollment fee, then paid for the ones that did with the money I made from cutting lawns or babysitting.
I cried the day mail came from the dance academy my mother had gone to, shedding tears of happiness as I read the acceptance letter. I’d done it. Then I cried because my mom wasn’t there to see me follow in her footsteps, and I wasn’t sure how I was going to do it on my own. I had to believe my parents were watching over me and my life with the Hillsons, and the harshness I’d endured for five long years had just been a test of will.
I remember the day Betty Hillson came to me asking about the account my parents had opened for me, explaining the court had contacted my social worker about signing it over to me because I was turning eighteen soon. God, she’d been so happy for me. We’d hugged, and I’d cried. I’d held so much anger toward my parents, but that money would finally allow me to have a future. Betty convinced me signing the inheritance over to them was best. Being more knowledgeable, they would invest and manage my finances. IRAs, savings account, CDs—whatever other mumbo jumbo words she threw my way.