Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
“That you still hadn’t given it up.”
“Given what…”
Oh.
Oh! He means…
He means my virginity.
The thing he was asking about the other night. For his best friend.
“It’s…” I go, sounding all outraged or wanting to at least. “It was none of your business.”
He chuckles again, his hands going even more restless on my body. “No, it wasn’t. It was more than my business.”
“What?”
“It was my fucking obsession.”
He’s stroking me harder now. Squeezing my belly, massaging my sides, pressing into my breasts.
I’d tell him to stop.
Only I’m doing the same thing. I’m rubbing my palms over his shoulders, stroking his biceps, the sides of his neck, tugging at his hair.
“And so I’d ask him,” he swallows, “if he’d taken your cherry yet.”
“You…”
“I’d try to be sneaky about it, you know,” he continues. “I’d try to provoke him at practice, give him shit about his passes. Tell him to loosen up, get laid and then he’d get mad and tell me that he couldn’t. Because his tight innocent girlfriend wouldn’t put out. Or when we’d get drunk, I’d try to get him to talk. I’d share my escapades just so he’d share his. And he never had anything.”
“That’s…” I pull at his hair, looking for a word, “sneaky.”
“Yeah, I know. I said that.”
I dig my heels in the small of his back. “You’re an asshole.”
“An obsessive asshole,” he corrects me. “Who’d then beat off in his room, standing by his window.”
“Window?”
“Because I could see yours through mine.”
Wait, what?
He’d…
“You’d… do that while staring at my window?”
Another chuckle. “Yes, Echo, I’d do that, standing at my window while watching yours. Sometimes I’d even see you. Fluttering around in your room, your honey-blonde hair in your good girl braid and your tight little body in your pink pajamas. Sometimes you’d sit in your bed and read. And smell your hair. Jesus Christ, I’d lose it when you did that. Smelled the tail of your braid, curled it in your tiny fingers. I’d fucking blow all over my windowpane.”
I go to say something but I feel a tug in my hair and I realize that he’s pulling at my braid again. He’s wrapping it around his hand once again, but this time more gently. This time, he wants to feel it. He wants to rub his thumb over the tail.
And he wants to watch himself do it.
“I knew it,” he murmurs.
“Knew what?”
“That it’d be soft.” Another tug. “Like silk. Velvet. I fucking knew. And I fucking imagined.”
“Imagined what?”
He looks up. “Fucking your hair.”
I jerk. “What?”
“Yeah, I don’t think I’ve ever imagined fucking someone’s hair. Except yours. It’s just…” He tugs again, almost viciously. “Something about it. All honey-colored and thick and rich and soft. So fucking sweet.”
He brings my braid up to his nose and smells it, making me jerk again.
His eyes are closed and he growls softly, taking a whiff.
“Y-you have a hair fetish,” I tell him. “It’s g-gross.”
It’s not gross.
Not at all.
What it is is arousing. Oh my God, it’s arousing.
I don’t think I’ve felt this way before.
This... hot and squirmy. And aroused.
Well, except for that one kiss we’d shared. Which I’m not going to think about.
I don’t want to think about that kiss.
Still snorting my smell, he says, “No, I’ve got an Echo fetish.”
My breath hitches. “Reign, I think we shouldn’t talk about this. I-I have a boyfriend.”
He opens his eyes. “Ex-boyfriend.”
“Reign —”
“And while I’d fuck my fist, watching you smell your hair, thinking that I’m fucking your braid, I’d imagine that you were saving it for me.”
My heart slams inside my chest, really, really loudly.
Or maybe it’s his heart.
Thundering inside his chest and reverberating inside mine because we’re basically one body right now.
“I wasn’t,” I tell him, quickly, urgently, fearfully, knowing exactly what he means.
“I’d imagine how it would feel to take what’s mine.”
“It’s not yours.”
It’s not.
It’s not.
It’s not.
It never was. It never will be.
But the place between my thighs doesn’t seem to care. The place between my thighs is buzzing. It’s alive and pulsating. And I don’t know how to make it stop.
And what he says next doesn’t help either.
“You’d be tight, I knew that.” Letting go of my braid then, he spans my torso, squeezing it as a whole, as if proving a point. “I know that.”
My spine arches. “No, I’m —”
“Knowing my luck, you’d probably be sewn shut.”
“That’s —”
“Knowing my luck, Echo, you’d probably start crying at the first sight of my dick.”
I scratch his neck. “I will not start crying.”
“You’re a crybaby,” he tells me. “You’ll cry.”
“I will not.”
“You’d probably start bawling at how big it is.”
“It can’t be that big.”
“How thick and angry.”
“Why would it be angry?”
He squeezes my ribs again, making me gasp as he says with clenched teeth, “Because of you. Because of how tight your pussy is. How tight and small, two sizes too small for my dick. And how it wants to get in. It wants to fucking pound its way into your tight pussy hole but can’t. It has to be patient.”