Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
I need him inside me, hard and unforgiving. The thrust and press of him claiming me so, so deep.
His tongue swirls and his teeth scrape as he takes his time, but this frenzy inside me won’t be contained.
“Let me—” I reach for his zipper, for his cock, when he plucks my hand away.
“Impatient,” he chastises, pressing my hand above my head. Lifting the other, he makes a manacle of his fingers over my wrists. “Good girls wait for an invitation. Good girls say please.”
I turn instantly hot at his words. The chastisement. My cheeks burn with indignity, the blood in my veins turning molten as a fiery need creeps across my skin. I want to bite him, fight him for making me feel this way, but I want more than anything to be good for him.
His good girl.
“Please, Niko,” I plead. “Please touch me.” Being restrained only heightens these feelings, my internal pleasure points pulsing with need.
“You want me to fuck you, but that’s not happening today, darling.”
That can’t be true. “The look on your face says otherwise.”
His free hand drags away the sheet, leaving me naked but for my panties. The cool of the room caresses my skin, and a shiver courses through me as his hand passes down my hip and slides over my thigh. “It’s not that I don’t want you.” His eyes eat me up. Heat me up.
“Just five minutes,” I whisper.
“Five minutes is all I trust myself with.” His fingers tighten on my thigh. Lifting it, he widens me to him. Cool air hits damp, and I know the pale-pink gossamer fabric can leave little to the imagination.
“You’re wet.” It’s not an accusation, more an expression of praise as his thumb passes over the fabric, making my insides ache. A brush, a touch, a scrape of his nail over my most sensitive place as he begins to play with me, play with my responses. I whimper and twist, feeling like an overripe peach. One firm touch, and I know I’ll burst all over his fingers.
I tilt my hips to increase the contact, wondering if he can feel my pulse through fabric and flesh, if he can feel my needy pull.
“Niko. Touch me. Oh God, please kiss me.”
“Don’t you want my Aston Martin?” He lowers his head in promise, his tongue sliding across my lips in something so much dirtier than a mere kiss. It’s not a tasting or a tease but a statement of our roles. Something intrinsic. How he’ll give. How I’ll receive.
“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Not for the first time, my eyes slide to the bulge in his jeans. I bite my lip to contain my smile as I consider how all signs point to a premium vehicle. “Why don’t we just call it what it is?”
“And what would that be?”
“All for me.” My reply is breath over sandpaper.
“Such a tease, Peanut.” He gives a dark-sounding chuckle as his lips coast over mine, feeding me his words and his hot breath as his hand cups me fully. “It’s almost like you’re trying to force my hand.” That low, taunting rasp, his squeezing touch, it makes everything inside sing. “I’ve half a mind to punish you for it.”
Pleasure ricochets through me, lighting me up inside like a pinball machine. His words are a thrill, but something tells me that wasn’t an empty promise or words heated by the moment. They’re words with substance and consequences, which means he has practical experience. How do I answer?
Do I just say yes please, some of that?
“Only half a mind?” I whimper as his fingers pinch my swollen clit.
“New wager.” He pulls away, watching my expression as he drags his thumbnail the length of me. “I’ll make you come right now. Give you that relief. And you’ll have dinner with me.”
“That’s not how a wager works,” I whimper, my body chasing his fingers, his touch. He said so himself. “There’s supposed to be something in it for me.”
“Other than coming?” God, I want to lick that expression from his mouth. Ride it, maybe. “Falling apart under my hands? My mouth?”
My insides clench needily, and I arch from the bed. “What if I can’t? If you can’t.” My words are as tremulous as my breath, but still, I persist in this push and pull. “What if I don’t come?”
“That would be a crying shame.”
He looks like he might be about to add something, some proviso or quip, when I grab his shirt for the second time today and pull him down to me. He doesn’t resist this time, his body coming over mine, his broad shoulders blocking out the weak afternoon sun. My hands scrabble against his belt, pulling his shirt from his jeans until my fingers find flesh, lean muscle, and skin. A downy trail of hair and—