Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 118579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 593(@200wpm)___ 474(@250wpm)___ 395(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 593(@200wpm)___ 474(@250wpm)___ 395(@300wpm)
“Y—yes.”
“Am I too deep?”
“N—no.”
“Am I too rough?”
“N—no.”
“Good. ’Cause I’m about to be.”
His hand snaked behind my back and spun me in place, and for one second, his cock was no longer buried inside me. He propped me on my knees but I fell flat on my stomach when he drove into me again, this time from behind. He lifted one of my hips with his arm—his muscles tight and sweaty against my thigh—to create the perfect angle for him to tear me apart with his thick, long ridge.
“So deep.” I squeezed my eyes again, feeling another orgasm trickling from my skull down to the tip of my spine. Dean ‘Ruckus’ Cole was a sex god. It shouldn’t have surprised me, but he was right. What we shared wasn’t normal. It was crazy.
Crazy good.
“Don’t come just yet.” He plunged into me once again, and my teeth dug into the vinyl of his seat, clinging to the yellow sponge underneath as I tried to stifle another scream.
“I can’t hold it,” I panted, breathlessly digging my fingernails into the worn cab. He was going at it like he was trying to kill me. And in a way, he did. He killed every single chance I had to enjoy sex with anyone else.
“You need my permission to come, LeBlanc. Beg for it.”
Somewhere inside me, I knew that the whole thing was insane. Drunk or not, I could distinguish right from wrong. Still, I complied, because I kind of liked the fact that for a moment in time, I wasn’t the bitch who hated him and he wasn’t the guy I could never have.
“Please let me come.”
“Come all over my cock, baby.”
I collapsed deeper onto his seat and moaned as another tsunami swept through my body. And I saw stars. Stars he hung there—stars that twinkled so much brighter than the ones in the sky.
Dean flipped me again, but this time my eyes were half-opened. He pumped into me a few more times—his face scarily blank—pulled out, took off the condom, and came all over my stomach and bra.
I stared at him, not sure if I was mesmerized, disgusted, or too content to differentiate between the two.
He grabbed my torn shirt—the Podiatrists Association shirt that was compliments of Darren—from the seat beside us and clutched it into a ball, cleaning his cum from my body with it.
“Say goodbye to this shirt, and anything else another man who isn’t your dad ever gave you. Am I clear?”
“You’re awfully possessive,” I complained, glaring at him through sleepy eyes like he was my sun, the moon, and everything worth seeing in the constellation.
“That’s because you’re awfully mine.”
“And what on Earth would make you think that? The fact that we slept together?” I pretended to laugh, but there was nothing funny about his statement. Or what we just did.
“Nah,” he said, his hand moving to the left side of my chest. He placed it over my heart, and squeezed one time. “This thing right here? It fucking beats for me. You know it. I know it. Keep lying, Rosie. I’ll milk the truth out of you. One way or the other.”
EVERYTHING THROBBED AS WE DROVE back to Vicious’s mansion. Baby LeBlanc fell asleep and I was still able to smell her sex on my fingers and her coconut shampoo on my shirt, and I guess it fucked with my mind, because I found myself driving around the neighborhood four times at three in the morning, not ready to say goodbye.
You’re in deep trouble, asshole, logic scolded me. You don’t need this shit. Getting involved is a risk. You need to take care of your Nina business and stop drinking.
But logic had no room or space in my mind. I was fully occupied with everything Rose LeBlanc, and I didn’t even give a damn that she was sick and had her own baggage to deal with. She was wearing my varsity jacket over her bra, the one I had found in the bed of my truck from ten years ago. Dr. Dickface’s torn shirt was where it was supposed to be—in a trashcan in the middle of fucking nowhere.
I parked in front of the main entrance of the mansion and contemplated what to do next. She was snoring, producing a sound that was more appropriate for a grizzly bear than a tiny chick—and I didn’t have it in me to wake her up.
Finally, I picked her small body up and carried her into the house. Her flip-flops were clasped between her fingers as I moved past doors, peeking into the ones that were ajar until I found hers, The Strokes poster-covered room.
Tucking her inside her bed, I wrapped blankets snug around her body like you would a baby and kissed her nose.
“By the way,” I whispered to my Sleeping Beauty. “I find flip-flops personally offensive, and I still want to tap you again.”