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)
“Do you know,” she begins quite suddenly, “that your tongue, an elephant’s trunk, and the tentacle of an octopus all have something in common?”
Complex and a little off the wall.
“Carson, what are you doing?” She begins to giggle and squirm as I throw the sheet over my head and begin to work my way down her body. “Stop that!”
“I can take a hint,” I answer, loving the feel of her small hand under my chin. But it had to be a hint. At least, there was only one direction my brain went after tongue, trunk, and tentacle. You know, tentacle as in cocktopus.
“That wasn’t a hint,” she protests, her cheeks taking on that perfect pink hue again. For the record, I’d discovered that her blushes run to her chest, not that she isn’t deliciously pink in other places. Nipples the colour of cherry blossoms, the hue between her legs coloured more like the flesh of a cherry. And just as delicious.
“That’s a pity.”
“A pity is something you should have for my body.” She leans down, pressing a smiling kiss to my lips. “I’ve had more orgasms tonight than I’ve had hot dinners.”
“You must be positively starved,” I almost growl, pushing myself up and over her. Tangled in the sheet as she is, we’re not quite skin to skin, not that it stops the heat of her driving me wild. “But you were saying something about my tongue being like an elephant’s trunk, I believe.” With that, I rock into the centre of her, then lick the column of her neck. I’m the whole package, baby. Tongue, trunk, and cocktopus.
Man, I’m pleased I didn’t say that out loud.
“Oh, yes!”
“Is that yeah, more trunk?” I surge into her once again. “Or . . .”
“J-just yes.”
“Tell me more about this tongue business,” I rasp, pressing my lips to her neck.
“Th-they both work the same way. A bundle of muscles operating without the support of bones.”
Sounds like I feel.
“Bones.” The word is just a rumble against her lips as I thrust my boner against her.
“M-muscle tissue is mostly water.” Her hands reach for my shoulders as her thighs widen. “They contract, osmotic pressure causing the whole thing to expand elsewhere.”
“Osmosis,” I draw the word out like it’s the sexiest concept ever as I begin to undulate against her, rock fucking hard and full of plans for where I’d like to expand. “I feel so educated.” Right now. How we got here from elephants, I’ve no idea, but I don’t care either. In fact, words? Thoughts? What the fuck are they?
“If your tongue was the same size as an elephant’s trunk.” A gasp. “I-it could uproot trees.”
“Can you make do with one that can tie a knot in a cherry stalk?”
“It can?” She pushes against my shoulders a touch, and I try not to smirk at her eager question. “I mean, you can?”
“That’s not even its best trick.” The flare of her eyes reflects her understanding almost immediately.
“Yes,” she asserts on a gasp, her body arching against me. “M-making me come.”
I begin to work my way down her body again, intending to catalogue every dip and curve with my tongue and lips, tasting all the pink hues of her before I bury my tongue in her sweet heat.
“We shouldn’t. I should go home.”
“It’s barely eleven.” My protest is a low rumble across the bud of her nipple before it disappears between my lips.
“I need to be home by midnight, at the latest. Oh, Carson,” she cries as I slide my hand between her legs, all agile fingers and flicking tongue.
“Time for at least three more orgasms before you turn into a pumpkin, pumpkin.”
“But we should talk.”
My lips come off her breast with a pop, tongue swirling over her ribcage. “Ardeo nights aren’t exactly renowned for their scintillating conversations.” Immediately, I want to bite off my tongue as her body stiffens against mine. “Fee, I—”
“No, it’s fine.” Grabbing the sheet, she yanks it between us, trying to cover herself. “We shouldn’t kid ourselves. Just because we’re not out there,” she mutters, trying to wriggle from under me, “doesn’t mean we’re any different.”
I press my forehead to hers, stilling her, almost wishing she could see inside my head. See how this is different. That it always has been. How else would I—could I—have recognised that she’s the one for me?
She’s the one for me.
Nothing has ever rung so true or ever felt so painful, the words winding themselves like barbs around my heart. But what if I’m not the one for her?
“You know that’s not true.” I fall back against the mattress, wrapping my arm around her waist, desperate for things not to end this way. How can I make her see this?
“How can I know it? How can you?”
“Fee, stop.” I press my chin to her head, pulling her body tight to mine. “We’ll talk, but like this. Please don’t pull away.” Should I start? Should I tell her I tried to do the right thing, to stay away from her? That I couldn’t bear to leave the city while she was here? Before I have to decide where to begin, she begins to speak, her words so soft I almost have to strain to hear.