Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 41679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
If I ran…would he chase me?
Would he hold me down and fuck me while whispering all kinds of filth in my ear as I try to get away?
Jonas stops in front of me. “What’s got that look on your face?”
“Nothing.” I answer too quickly.
He shakes his head slowly. “If you don’t want to answer, that’s fine, but don’t lie to me.”
My skin feels like it’s turned crimson. Speaking such a filthy fantasy out loud will expose even more of myself. What if that is the line he’s not willing to cross? What if he turns away?
He can’t give me what I want if I don’t tell him the truth.
I dredge up my last bit of courage. “I was thinking that I would like you to chase me.” When he doesn’t move, I force myself to keep going. “To hold me down and fuck me.”
“While you try to get away.”
It feels like he’s reading my mind. Or at least reading me far better than I could have ever anticipated. “While I try to get away,” I confirm. I can’t quite meet his gaze, so I stare at his chest. Except Jonas doesn’t let me get away with that. Of course he doesn’t.
He touches my chin, tipping my head up until I’m staring straight into his blue eyes. He searches my face as if he really can pull my thoughts right out of my head through sheer determination. Whatever he sees there seems to satisfy him, because he nods slowly. “We’ll talk about it later.”
That isn’t a no.
Holy shit, that isn’t a no.
While I’m still processing that, he unties the apron and sets it on the counter. Then he skims off the shirt. Jonas just looks at me for a moment. I like that the sight of me naked affects him like this. I like it a lot. Finally he grabs the apron. “This, baby girl, is what I want and you damn well know it.” He eases it over my head, arranging it just so, and slides his hands down the straps to the panel in front, the backs of his fingers brushing against my breasts. He follows the line of the fabric to my hips and then steps close to reach behind me and tie it in place.
Jonas moves back enough to admire his handiwork. I look down at myself. I look ridiculously sexy. Like a pinup girl or something, except I’m no doubt sporting just-been-fucked hair and don’t have a speck of makeup on.
He leans back against the counter. “Think you can keep from making a mess in my kitchen?”
“You’re the one who wants cookies.” When he lowers his brows, I give a little pout. “I’ll try, Daddy.”
“That’s what I want to hear.” He makes a lazy motion with his hand. “Get to work.”
Being naked with Jonas is one thing. Wearing an apron and nothing else while I move around his kitchen, trying to find all the ingredients for chocolate chip cookies, is something else altogether. I can feel him watching me every step of the way, and I can’t help but put on a little show for him. Bending at the waist to look for bowls in the corner cabinet. Stretching my arms overhead to twist my hair up, high enough that my nipples peek out from behind the front panel of the apron. Doing anything I can to cause him to make that growling sound like he’s doing everything in his power to keep from grabbing me and fucking me right this moment.
He has better restraint than I do. By the time I get to the flour, I’m so wet, I’m practically dripping. I’m the one who’s about to break this tense standoff we have going on. Unacceptable.
I decide to play dirty.
I measure the flour and, instead of turning the mixer off, I just dump it in while it’s still going. Just as expected, a cloud erupts, sending flour everywhere. “Oops.” I don’t turn around to look at Jonas, not when I can hear him moving in my direction. I just add more flour, with the same result. “Oops again.”
Jonas’s hands slam down on either side of me and then he’s pressed against my bare back, his cock a hard length filled with promises of pleasure. He leans down until his lips are at my ear. “What did I say about making a mess?”
“Sorry, Daddy.” I can’t help grinning. “I’m really sorry.”
“You’re not even a little bit sorry.” He shuts off the mixer and grips the front of my apron in a fist, using that hold to turn me to face him. “You’re in my kitchen, dressed like a little slut, and making a mess. You’ve proven your point, baby girl. You want me to punish you.”
18
Of course I want him to punish me. That was the whole point of this. I’m still going to protest.