Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 67432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Still, I’d have to ignore it for now. Good thing I had somewhere else to focus my attention.
I closed my eyes and stroked, up and down, feeling the velvety soft heat from my shaft make my palm warm. I grabbed my tightening balls, massaging them. My toes curled. I stretched my legs, flexing the thighs, feeling a mixture of pure pleasure and desire. As much as I enjoyed my own hand, I couldn’t stop thinking about how good it’d feel if it was Colton’s hand.
Or mouth or ass.
“Fuck,” I hissed out into my empty bedroom. I was getting close. Nearly there. I quickened my strokes, tightening my grip. I used my leaking precum as lube, spreading it on myself, imagining the wet sensation coming from Colton’s lips instead. He’d always had a way with his tongue. I’d be unraveled before he even got me into his mouth.
My alarm started to blare. I’d usually wake up before my alarm went off whenever I had a lot on my mind, and today had been one of those days.
I rolled over, my erection pressing into the mattress as I reached for my phone to turn off my alarm. Instantly, my screen was filled with notifications and emails. I was going to set it back down and finish jerking off when one subject line snagged my attention.
RE: Question about your blog post on the murder of Amelia Cooper.
Before going to sleep last night and once I decided I was taking up Colton’s case, I had sent an email to the author of that one blog post that seemed to have a lot of information on the family. I wasn’t expecting much of a response, and especially not one so soon, but there it was.
She’d agreed to a chat with me. She said she’d be free in the next few hours for a Zoom call but flat out stated she couldn’t give out more information than what was in the post. Which was fine—I figured I could try and pull something useful out of here before the call was over. I typed up a quick response and set a time for later in the day to talk with her.
Woosh. The sound of the email sending came through the speakers. I set my phone back, glad to have at least one lead to follow before leaving for France. The article seemed very thorough and well detailed with information that should have been sealed in a police report and not handed out to the general public. She’d mentioned the exact items that were taken, along with the discovery of a long blond hair, which couldn’t be DNA matched to anyone in the database. These were things that she either had to have been told (and if so, by who?), or she somehow discovered it all herself.
Regardless of what had happened, I wanted to know. But in the meantime, there was something else a little more pressing at hand.
I laid my head on the pillow, rubbing my chest and belly before going back to my stiff length. Two more minutes of fantasizing about Colton bouncing on my cock was all I needed. I blew, spraying my load all over my stomach, coming to a fantasy that I was sure would remain as just that. A fantasy.
Well, and a memory.
“Hi, Vicky. Thanks for setting aside some time to chat with me.”
“Totally fine,” Vicky said, her audio coming through with a little static. She was sitting in front of a tall but largely empty bookshelf, wearing a white shirt that blended into the white and barren bookshelf. She had a sharp cat eye painted on and an even sharper smile that seemed to cut through the computer screen. “You’re interested in Amelia Cooper’s death, right?”
“I am. I’m working on a case and stumbled on your article. You seem to know a lot about what happened that day.”
“It was one of my weirder posts. I normally am a little more vague with what I write, especially because I don’t want to hamper any kind of investigation, but this one was different. It seemed like the cops were writing it off as a robbery, but I’m not so sure about that, so I shared everything I knew.” She lifted a mug—one of those souvenir boob mugs with a Vegas tattoo—and took a sip. I blinked, and she looked down at the mug, chuckling. “It’s my son’s. He thought it was funny.”
I briefly wondered if there would be as big a market for mugs made to look like dicks but pushed myself back on track. I’d have to figure out my Shark Tank pitch at some other time.
“And how did you come across the details? I couldn’t find anything online with the type of information you were able to get.”
She cocked her head and arched a well-shaped brow. “Now, now, you know I can’t give up my sources like that.”