Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 141165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
“No, not at all.” I push a frizzed strand of hair off my cheek. “Is it odd to say that I’m actually excited? I’ve never faked an orgasm before. Usually I just tell the guy that they didn’t please me, and I’ll provide pointers and then let them solve the rest. So this is a first—the faking orgasm part.” I intake a short breath, my eyes widening at my unraveling thoughts that I’m purging out loud.
Does he even want to know about your orgasms, Jane?
He’s stoic. Not breaking eye contact, but his hands have paused unzipping his backpack.
I speak faster. “Which just means that I’m not one-hundred percent positive I’ll be the very best at faking an orgasm—but I am excited to try. Truly.”
I can’t blink.
My face is most definitely on fire.
“So…” I keep going. Why am I still going? “There’s that.”
Positive endnote. Let me survive this.
Thatcher is quiet, not unusual for him. His eyes are still on me. Still burning me alive. I shouldn’t like that.
But in this moment, I don’t want him to stare at anything or anyone but me.
His deep, husky voice fills the room. “So I’m the first guy you’ll be faking an orgasm with.”
He says it like it’s a fact. Which I suppose it is. But I doubt that’d make anyone feel good.
I lean my hip on the nightstand. “Factually, yes—but if we were really having sex, there’s a high probability that I’d orgasm.” I’m unblinking. Unmoving.
Frozen.
His biceps seem to flex. “Not a high probability.”
“No?” I hang on the edge of his words.
“If I put my cock in your pussy, there’s a hundred-percent certainty you’d orgasm in my arms. More than twice.”
Oh my God.
I cross my ankles. Somehow still standing, but I press my thighs harder together. Pulsating. “Good to know,” I say as diplomatically as I can. “We’re on the same page then.”
It’s all very professional here.
Thatcher nods, but his shoulders seem more bound. He’s on-duty, on guard, is all. He pulls out a taser and water bottle from his backpack. When he stands, he feels even taller, or maybe I feel shorter.
With a confident stride, he heads nearer, and I shift out of the way so he can open the nightstand drawer. He stores the taser and then removes his holstered gun off his waistband. Sliding in the second weapon before closing the drawer.
I realize he has to sleep on this side of the bed. It’s closest to the door.
Thatcher touches his earpiece, then clicks his mic. “Solid copy.”
I’ve decided that watching him work is utterly captivating. And I have a front row seat each and every day.
He unscrews his water bottle. Veins in his arm muscles are more noticeable as he tips the bottle of water to his mouth.
I can’t think…he is so…
My breath shallows. How am I going to survive? Okay, you packed your favorite vibrator. I can go into the bathroom tonight. All will work in my favor.
I take a measured breath.
Thatcher wipes his mouth with the back of his palm. He offers me his water, holding the bottle.
I press my lips together, a smile pulling my cheeks. I should decline. “Thank you,” I say, my hand already reaching out to accept.
Oh, you are done for, Miss Jane Eleanor.
We never look away from one another, and I take a small sip. I am parched.
Just not for water.
When I finish, I pass the water bottle back to my bodyguard. “Should I test the bed?”
He nods and checks his watch. “We should start before the other guests fall asleep.”
I peel off my chunky heels, and I notice the bed has a hefty iron-rung headboard. Without much hesitation, I climb up and stand on the mattress.
Box springs squeak, and the bed undulates beneath my feet. I bounce and watch him remove his earpiece and then unclip the mic wire from his collar. He detaches the radio from his waistband and places it on the nightstand.
A fan whirls only a few inches above my head, and I’m careful not to jump too high. “You can’t stand on the bed with me,” I realize. Clearly, he’s too tall.
Thatcher nods, and stepping closer, he grips the headboard. “Jane,” he says with the perfect mix of tenderness and force.
“Yes?” I balance on the creaking bed.
“You’re gonna have to moan.”
20
JANE COBALT
“Right,” I say, my chest rising and falling. I’ve never ached for someone to touch me as terribly as I ache for Thatcher. Desiring his large hands to run down every single plane and valley of my body. On this very bed.
He eyes my breasts for a short fleeting second. “Jane—”
“Mmm,” I moan, starting softly.
Suppressing my orgasms has been a habit lately since I live in a townhouse with thin walls. It’s going to be kind of fun trying to be louder.
Fake louder, Jane.
Thatcher shoves the iron headboard against the wall, the thump simulating aggressive sex perfectly.