Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 94546 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94546 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
It won’t matter how hard he scrubs, shit sticks then lingers for years on end.
I learned that the hard way, but since my miniskirt is representing a belt, and I’m not the only one noticing, I’ll have to save that story for a more appropriate time.
After tugging down my skirt to a more appropriate length, I switch my focus to my poo-dotted shirt. We work in silence for several long minutes, the tension as teeming as the heat of the stranger’s hooded gaze raking my body.
The way he peers at me beneath lowered lashes sets my skin on fire, and it takes everything I have to remember we’ve only just met.
I don’t even know his name for crying out loud, so none of the inappropriate thoughts streaming through my head should seem like a good idea, but for some inane reason, they’re presented as ingenious.
When I can’t hold back the desire to clench my thigh muscles together for a second longer, the stranger’s eyes lift and lock with mine. They’re even darker since we’re in a square box with no natural light and brimming with lust.
I’m confident my expressions mirror his. The energy zapping between us is intense, and for once, it isn’t bad friction.
After a reminder that we’re perfect strangers, I ask, “Do you think we could get away with calling that a bronzer streak?”
Our eye contact holds strong until I chicken out first. His eyes eventually follow suit when I lower my hooded gaze to the brown streak smeared down my inner thigh. I only know this because instead of his heated gaze scorching my face, it does wickedly naughty things to my insides.
My body has never responded to a man like this before.
Not once.
“I am overdue for a spray tan, and the hipsters these days are all about natural products.” I swallow to soothe my suddenly parched throat before muttering, “And that is about as organic as it gets.”
It’s only when he endeavors to clean up the mess I’m referencing do I realize I returned the focus to my microskirt instead of veering away from it. The tip of his index finger is a mere inch from my panties that grow damper the longer his girthy fingers mop up the goop.
After several womb-tingling seconds, he mutters, “It’s a stubborn little thing, isn’t it?”
The tension turns blistering when he pulls a tissue out of his pocket and spits into it. The stain is a determined smudge that will require some wetness to force it to move on, so a spit-covered tissue makes sense, but to my woozy head, its sweeps across my heated skin represent something far more sinister than a stranger aiding a stranger.
It’s a man taking care of his woman in all meanings of the word, and it has me one step away from begging like I’ve never begged before.
Skip that.
I’m already there.
The tension is too much to bear.
“Please.”
My plea is barely a whisper but obviously loud enough for the stranger to hear. Hot air whizzes out of his nose as the tissue slips from beneath his hand. When his thumb treks over the flushed skin high on my thigh, it grips the skin more than it caresses it, proving his body temperature is as roasting as mine, his veins just as molten. “Did you say something?”
I shake my head, denying the pleas of my body, but my mouth has other ideas. “I said please…” Too pigheaded for my own good, I quickly add, “… let me do that.”
He snatches up the tissue before I can and tosses it into a bin at the side of the desk like he’s intimate with the floorplan. “It’s done. You’re clean.” He steps even closer, forcing my legs to part like a big wedge of wood won’t stop him from aligning our crotches. “Almost.”
I’m on fire. Everywhere. My skin is bubbling with blisters. That’s how hot the liquid ecstasy rolling through my body is from him cupping my ankle and raising my leg into the air. I’ve read books when the dominant alpha male curls his woman’s leg over his shoulder before going down on her in public, but I’ve never experienced it.
Before my five-year hiatus from sex, my scarce number of bed partners were adventurous but selfish. They loved receiving head, but reciprocating wasn’t really their forte.
Feeding off the tension instead of the niggle of doubt in the back of my head, I tilt back to ensure the handsome stranger has room to explore. I’m seconds from my damp panties being exposed when a crack sounds through my ears. It could be my libido breaking through the wall I built around it years ago, but my intuition is warning me not to be so stupid. A travesty has occurred, but instead of it being my senseless wish to get freaky with a stranger, it is my second Vizzano pump’s torturous crawl to shoe heaven.