Total pages in book: 13
Estimated words: 11371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 57(@200wpm)___ 45(@250wpm)___ 38(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 11371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 57(@200wpm)___ 45(@250wpm)___ 38(@300wpm)
“You need to go home, Steph. Pack up that car, and head north.” His hand slowed, taking its time as he moved higher, my thighs parting wider, waiting for him. Who was I? What was I doing? This wasn’t me. Stephanie Wilson should be fully gassed up, two cases of water and a package of dry goods in the trunk, already over the Mississippi line and halfway to my sister’s house in Atlanta. I should be watching the hurricane approach from her sofa, a sweet tea in hand, and wondering if Dottie Stickelber and her three cats got out in time.
But I wasn’t thinking about Debbie, or her Siamese, or my sister. I was ignoring my Ford Fiesta, sitting on the third floor of the parking garage, bottled waters in tow, and spreading my legs in the middle of the Beau Rivage’s bar, in front of a dozen guests and the bartender. I snuck a glance at Clint and saw him wiping down glasses on the other end of the bar, his back to us. Tripp could probably fuck me on this bar top, and he wouldn’t turn around. He’d probably skirt around my bouncing feet and deliver drinks without so much of a second look. That was what everyone did around Tripp and Dario. They owned everyone within these walls, and we all danced to whatever beat they were playing at the time.
He reached my freshly waxed core, and his fingers played softly over my bare skin as if testing the keys on a keyboard. An exploratory touch traced down the line of my slit and then pressed in between.
Oh my God. Tripp Reinhart was touching me. In the middle of the bar. At the casino. Tripp was touching me and whatever I’d hoped to occur, it was certainly not this. His fingers pushed inside of me and I gasped, the glass falling out of my hand.
“Easy…” he caught the glass before it fell from my stool and onto the floor, setting it down on the bar, while still delicately torturing me with his hand. I looked into his face, and found him watching me, his forehead creased as he focused on his exploration of my—oh god. My hand flayed out and I grabbed at his shirt. He found what he wanted, and his mouth curved into a smile, his finger rubbing leisurely over my g-spot.
“That’s it,” he said softly, and angled himself closer to me, shielding our activity from Clint and the rest of the bar. Still, I could hear everything. The muffled conversation of the TV sportscasters. The music and chimes of the slot machine room. The sound of the sink as Clint ran the water.
We couldn’t do this here. I was an employee. I don’t know what I’d been thinking, sashaying down here without panties and flashing Tripp, but I’d envisioned something behind closed doors, my actions private, and not something that could risk my entire job.
Only … I wasn’t really risking my job. Not with Tripp involved. He was untouchable. And I—I lost the next thought, his touch quickening, excruciatingly perfect as it strummed over my swollen pleasure center. I was going to come. So embarrassingly quick and right here in the bar, in such a public place.
One of my heels fell off, hitting the floor with a crack that seemed loud enough to wake the dead. No one noticed, and I began to pant, my hand tightening on Trip’s shirt, twisting at the fabric. He leaned forward, his mouth against my ear. “Look at you, you filthy thing. Who would have thought, that innocent little Stephanie Wilson had such a sweet and hungry pussy?”
I bit at his neck to stifle my scream, digging my teeth in and moaning, my hips twitching, his touch commanding, my body spasming around his hand as the pleasure radiated out from his touch. It was quick and sharp, ending as soon as it began, and I was needy and desperate when he withdrew his hand, dragging it along my thigh, his fingers leaving a wet trail that showed exactly how much I’d enjoyed his touch.
He reached into his pocket and I envisioned him wiping off his hand on the fabric of the slacks. When he pulled it out, he had a gold key card. Setting it on the bar, next to my empty glass, he leaned forward and spoke into my ear. “You know my room number. I’ll be up there. Waiting.”
Yanking my dress back down to cover my knees, he pulled two twenties from his wallet and set them on the bar, knocking on the granite top to get Clint’s attention.
“Close up,” he ordered. Clint nodded, and I watched as Tripp gave me one hard look, then turned and left, his tall figure winding through the empty tables.
I looked down at his room key, my body still twitching from my orgasm, and saw the smear of my arousal across its glossy surface.