Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
I’d avoided doing all the things I’d have done for any other son-of-a-friend I’d employed, too—no offer of a spare room in my huge penthouse, no friendly lunches, no cushy job in the Executive Office—because I’d known those eyes were a temptation I couldn’t resist, though every tenet of friendship and several pertinent employment laws required me to.
And staring at them now, filled with heat and longing and the slightest bit of hesitation, even with the truth of our identities sitting like a bloated elephant between us, I couldn’t look away. I was frozen with indecision when I most needed to act. Captivated by their depths when I most needed to be rational.
Move away, I instructed myself firmly. Tell him to get his clothes on. Kick him out. Show some fucking control. Don’t be a fool. Disaster ahead.
I opened my mouth to put a stop to this, but before I could say a word, a low sound of need escaped his throat. And just like that, my decision was made.
Mentally cursing both of us, I lunged at him, gripping Reagan’s shoulders and shoving him onto the bed before following him down and covering his gasp of surprise with my mouth.
Fuck control. Fuck doing the right thing. And fuck Reagan fucking Wellbridge for putting me in this position in the first fucking place.
It didn’t occur to me until later that evening, when I could spare enough blood to work my brain, that the man on the hookup app had brown eyes. That the identifying pic he’d sent me earlier in the evening had shown an aquiline nose beneath his blue-feathered mask, not at all like Reagan’s perfect freckled one. That I’d intended to meet someone else entirely, and none of this should have happened.
At that moment, I was too far gone to think. For the first time in as long as I could remember, I pushed aside all thought of the future and took what I wanted. And what I wanted was my dick inside Reagan Wellbridge, my hands all over his fit body, and the sound of his pleas in my ears.
One night only, I told myself. A time out of time in which we exchanged orgasms and then went our separate ways, never to speak of it again. And I would make it count.
I shoved his hands above his head and held both wrists in one grip.
“Stay still,” I warned him between nips of his jaw and chin.
His breath hitched in a way that went straight to my balls.
He was so fucking responsive, so perfectly willing to let go and let me be in charge. I wanted to take advantage of whatever time I had with him to see exactly how good the sex could be between us.
I shoved a knee between his legs and pressed into his erection with my hip, rolling up and down his hard length and relishing the feel of him through our pants.
Reagan threw his head back with a groan. “Stop fucking teasing me.”
He might as well have waved a red flag in front of me. Now, all I wanted to do was tease him, edge the hell out of him until his cock leaked and his eyes watered.
I moved my mouth down his neck to his chest and sucked on one of his nipples, tweaking the other between my fingers, all the while not letting up with the roll of my hip against his dick. He tilted his hips up into me, seeking more friction, but every time he came close, I pulled back and weakened the press of our bodies.
His breath came in shallow pants, and both of his hands twisted into my hair and tugged. His legs finally wrapped around my back as he arched up into me again.
I reached down to open his pants before shoving my hand inside to feel his long, thick shaft. The fabric of his boxer briefs was damp with precum, which turned me the fuck on even more than discovering the size of his package or feeling the heat of him in my hand.
“You wet for me?” I grumbled as I moved my mouth down his chest to his happy trail. “Leaking all over yourself, hmm? That’s good. I like that. Show me how much you want this.”
“Fuck.” Reagan’s breathing was hoarse, and his hands trembled when he grabbed at my arm. How long had it been since this man had been in bed with someone else? I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen someone so desperate for release. “Please, Mr.— I mean, Tha— I mean, mmpfh.”
His attempts to figure out what to call me made me want to laugh despite the need swamping me because I understood his frustration. Despite being very much not a kid anymore, he’d always called me Mr. Pennington—maybe his own way of keeping distance between us—but that felt silly in this moment. Calling me Thatcher, though, made this encounter a little too real.