Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 77841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
It’s only a matter of time.
That should make me nervous.
Knowing my time with her is limited should scare me. It should make me want to pack a bag and run.
But it doesn’t.
It fills me with an urgency. One that says I need to get in as much of her as I possibly can before it all comes crashing down around me.
I growl in a rage, striking out and hitting the punching bag one last time so hard that the chain holding it to the ceiling rattles.
I refuse to grip my cock.
I refuse to touch it the same way that I refuse to touch her, but I don’t know how long I can hold on to that control.
She’s not even in front of me, and right now she’s all I can think about.
I pace the room.
What else could I possibly do right now?
I can’t leave the house. Imagining putting distance between the two of us makes me feel insane, which also pisses me off.
One run-in at the surf shop.
One upturn of her nose in disgust when she looked at me and this is where I’m at.
It makes no damn sense. This obsession seems uncontrollable. It seems unmanageable. It seems like fate.
“Fuck you,” I growl, striking the punching bag again, but instead of standing there and trying to assess the situation even more, I trace my steps back to the room she’s caged in.
I throw the door open.
I don’t even flinch when it slams against the wall. I don’t have time to worry about the damage it could have left behind. It’s not like I’ll ever get the chance to fix it. There’s no time for trivial things like that.
Her eyes widen as I stand in the doorway, my chest heaving up and down, both from the exertion of my workout and the anger that’s boiling inside of me.
She looks terrified, and she should be.
I felt like I’ve won a small victory because she’s no longer trying to mask her fear. There’s no soft smile on her lips. There are no timid questions coming from her mouth.
I don’t say a word as I approach her.
I don’t say a word as I pull down the front of my sweats.
I don’t say a word as my cock points directly at her face, as if that’s where it was always meant to be.
She tries to scramble away, but the chain connected to the collar around her neck will only allow her to get so far.
I don’t hesitate to close that distance. I don’t touch her. That would be crossing the line. I don’t know if I’d ever be able to come back from that.
If I touch her, I won’t be able to stop. I’ll hurt her and use her up.
“Take your shirt off,” I demand, losing control on being able to resist stroking my cock. My hand glides up my shaft.
It’s easy to see that she can’t figure out where her eyes need to be. I slow my hand as I witness the struggle. Her gaze darts from my eyes to my hand to the curtains on the wall. She wants to escape. There’s no part of me that she’s interested in.
Once again, I wish I could be inside her head. Ten minutes in there would give me all the information I’ll ever need.
“Take your shirt off,” I growl. “Now.”
Her fingers hesitate at the hem of her shirt.
“You know the rules. Do it or I’ll do it for you.”
She’s no faster at pulling the fabric free of her body with a threat than she was without.
“Pl-please,” she stammers. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Do you even know what this is?” I snap. “I could—” My words halt completely at the sight of her tits.
I feel out of control as my balls draw closer to my body.
“This is your fault,” I tell her. “This is what happens when you make assumptions about me.”
I roll my lips between my teeth, biting down until I taste blood.
She doesn’t deserve my grunts. She doesn’t deserve my groans of pleasure. This isn’t fun. This is torture. And she’s the cause of all of it.
“I wanted a polite conversation with you at the surf shop. That’s all I wanted. But you looked me up, looked me down, and decided I was no benefit to you.”
I stroke harder, faster, swirling my thumb over the tip of my cock on the upstroke.
“Are you always that way? Or do you just dismiss the people who you determine are no benefit to you? Is that how your family is? Is that how your dad is? Were you taught to do that, to look at someone, spend two seconds assessing them, and throw them away like trash when they can’t help you?”
She cries, her eyes unfocused and yet still darting everywhere.
“I’m not like that at all,” she says.