Total pages in book: 176
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
“What are you doing . . .” Elbows on the marble worktop, I glance behind me. Then down. “Oh.”
“Oh,” he repeats, though not in the same tone. His eyes are alight with wickedness as he hooks his thumbs into the sides of my yoga pants, pulling them down along with my underwear. “I think we’ll leave them here,” he murmurs as they reach my knees.
“We haven’t got time to mess aro—uund!”
My insides flame as his hand connects with my flesh. Not my bum, though there has been a good deal of spanking going on the last few weeks. I’ve found I’m really quite into it. Being spanked and stroked and manhandled by his big hands. Carson’s knee. But this. This is something different, his slap landing squarely between my legs. The sensation radiates from my clit to my stomach and my breasts, exploding from the top of my head.
“I knew you’d like that.”
“I didn’t—” Denials are quick to my tongue and pointless as he slides two fingers deep inside me. I’m on my toes immediately, rolling my lips together to mute my pleasure as he twists his wrist, then pulls them out.
“You didn’t what?” he asks smugly, causing me to turn my head over my shoulder. “Just look at the mess you’ve made of my fingers. Of course, you didn’t like it.”
“You are evil.”
“Not yet, I’m not.” He watches me with the kind of intensity that makes my vision go a little hazy. “Just wait until I try the spatula.”
“You really shouldn’t say those sorts of things.” I’m aware of the libidinous drop in my tone, my insides pounding for more.
“Why is that?” he asks oh, so reasonably.
“Because I might drag you into the laundry room and tie you go to the washing machine . . . with my stockings.”
“That sounds kind of kinky. Count me in.”
His hands move over the roundness of my bottom, the light of something devilish lurking there. My breath halts in my throat as I anticipate what he’s about to do, the sensation, the sensation unravelling, my body tilting of its own accord to help him. As I drop my head to my arms, a groan expands my ribs against the edge of the island as he presses his mouth to my centre, causing heat, white-hot and sudden, to pulse through me.
The sounds I make are raw and plaintive, though I try to muffle them against my arm as his tongue begins to swirl magically.
Manically?
Wonderfully.
“Oh, my God. Yes, like that!” I moan, pushing back into his face, my arms reaching out, my fingertips pressing against the cool marble.
“Sweet girl, you are so lush and so ripe—”
“What’s lush tripe?”
Carson’s tongue stills, and my head whips up, finding myself looking into the face of my daughter. We’re pretty much eye level as she sits on a high stool on the other side of the island, peering at me like a sparrow perched on a branch.
“T-tripe means rubbish. That’s what Grandad says.” Where the words come from, I have no idea as my heart begins to bounce around my ribcage like a skinhead on speed.
“What are you doing?” Elbow pressed to the marble, she cups her cheek to her hand.
“What are you doing?”
“Asking for milk and cookies.” She smiles cheekily, almost like she knows she’s got me over a barrel. Or rather that Carson has me over a kitchen island with his mouth glued to my nether regions while my yoga pants are around my knees.
But she can’t know. The world is not that cruel.
“For breakfast?” She nods. “Well, I’ll think about it,” I answer, acting as though the fact there’s a man on his knees behind me while my daughter barters with me is no big deal.
“Stop!” As his tongue flicks over my butt cheek, I squeak.
“I didn’t do noffing,” she complains. “Why are you wiggling? Have you got worms? When Poppy had worms, she got all wriggly. And she kept licking her bum. Remember?”
“I am not licking my bum.” Someone else happens to be doing it for me, his breathless chuckle tickling my skin. I lash out with my foot and try not to fall as Carson’s fingers wrap my ankle. “I’m also not a golden retriever.”
“Can I have cookies?”
“Go and sit down. I’ll bring them in.”
“Yay!” Lulu scrambles down from the stool and skips off in the direction of the door, pivoting as she reaches it. “Oh, Uncle Carson? Can you pass Mommy my pink cup? It’s in the cupboard next to you on the floor.”
“Well, fuck.” Like a meerkat peeking from its burrow, Carson’s head pops over the worktop. “Do you think she saw?”
“If she did, you’d better prepare yourself for some awkward questions.”
After an unhealthy and hurried breakfast (contrary to Carson’s assertion, oatmeal cookies are not the same as a bowl of oatmeal), we leave the apartment together, Lulu and me parting from Carson at the entrance. He’s off for a run in the park while Lulu and I are dressed for school and work, respectively. Two of us are dressed for the weather, and one of is dressed to be thoroughly objectified. And not just by me, as his thin T-shirt clings to him like a second skin.