Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 36118 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 181(@200wpm)___ 144(@250wpm)___ 120(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36118 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 181(@200wpm)___ 144(@250wpm)___ 120(@300wpm)
And he did just that.
If he could bottle the moan that pushed past full lips he would in a second. Goddamn spank bank worthy. He’d put it on repeat and play it as he pulled out as many as it took to get through not being with her.
Her gaze burned him as she ran it up and down his body, the pants she held wobbling slightly before she caught herself. Ryker couldn’t, and wouldn’t, stop the smirk.
He stopped when the pants smacked him in the face. Not too much later, a package of baby wipes were launched in his direction. She didn’t offer to help wipe him off and he didn’t ask, his control was already questionable being this close to her and his dick already doing it’s damndest to burrow out of his briefs and into her. Didn’t stop him from flexing every chance he could, keeping her hungry gaze on him.
Chapter 4
She moaned and shifted on the smooth cotton sheets, skin heated far beyond what it should be for four in the morning. Rayla whimpered and tried once more to find a comfortable place.
Ryker’s bed.
Pounding a fist on the mattress beside her, she cursed, not so quietly. With a huff, she pushed up on her arms as stared through the darkness at, well, nothing. No hot man lurking across the room staring at her, hoping for a glimpse of her.
“I have got to stop reading romances. At least before bed.”
Great so now thrillers and romances are out. This just gets fucking better and better.
Rayla flopped back with a groan, kicking the thin sheet off, desperate for relief. Unfortunately, she didn’t think that the kind of relief she sought could be found here, alone, in a room.
Breasts tender and crying out for a touch other than her own, she blew out a slow breath. She didn’t need to frig herself to get relief.
“Need? No. But it would help take the edge off.”
All night she’d been tormented and tortured with dreams of Ryker Owens before her in nothing more than a pair of delicious…tight dark green boxer briefs. The man was ripped. Fucking chiseled from stone.
She gasped and shuddered as two fingers slipped over and around her clit, spreading her wetness. Too far gone she didn’t even try to talk herself out of the pleasure her body clamored after.
Closing her eyes, she called forth the mental image she wouldn’t be forgetting for years to come. Ryker Owens standing there, smoldering gaze locked on her, surrounded by the clothing he removed. The pants, the dirty ones, were kicked off to the side.
She fumbled the pants she’d been holding and had to scramble to keep them from falling to the floor. His smirk alerted her to the fact he’d caught that.
Rubbing faster, she panted as she thought about all eight, maybe more of the abs that on anyone else she would have assumed to be airbrushed. The hard planes of his chest held a smattering of hair. Dark curls she longed to push her hands through.
She’d whipped around and got some baby wipes for him and tossed them in his direction.
Her imaginary journey took a detour and in this version, he didn’t stop until he had her backed against a wall. Her own touch mimicked the grasp on her breast, the steady flicks of her clit.
Even so, she needed more. Craved it. Him.
Crying out as she crested, Rayla panted as her breathing slowly returned to normal, her body still hyperaware and desperate for the actual thing. She didn’t bring any toys with her on this trip, thinking she wouldn’t need them.
That was before Ryker swaggered into my life.
Accepting she wasn’t going to get more sleep, she rolled, however reluctantly from the comfortable bed and padded to the bathroom where she took an invigorating cold shower. Today she had a day off and she should be spending more time in bed.
“Pointless to try and rest if all I’m doing is getting worked up in bed.”
Hair tossed up in a red and blue scarf, she hooked one side of her light weight romper, allowing the other strap to hang. Barefoot she walked to the kitchen and set her phone on the counter before turning on a light.
Squinting, she shut off the overhead one and turned on the recessed ones over the sink. Putting Pitbull on her phone, she began pulling things out to make herself an omelet. Green and red pepper. Eggs. Mushrooms. Cheese and an array of herbs.
Knife in hand, she bobbed her head to the music, spun the knife and set to dicing up the peppers. Once they were done and in a bowl, she moved to the mushrooms, making short work of them as well. Wiping off her hands, she tossed the towel over her shoulder and grabbed down a glass.
Dancing to the fridge, she got some juice and spun back to the counter and set it down. Rinsing off the knife, she chopped up the herbs and when she reached for the cheese, she froze.