Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Right. "I don't want to talk about your parents."
He motions to the drink. "It's sweet. Unique. Subtle. Sure of itself. Perfect for you."
"That's how you see me?"
"Absolutely."
I've never really thought of myself as a cocktail. And I should probably question the whole objectifying nature of it, but I love the idea of Patrick drinking every drop of me too.
"Put down your drink." His voice shifts to another tone. A deeper one. More commanding.
I do.
"Show me."
"Already?"
"Yes."
I glance around the room. No one is watching. And his body is blocking me, for the most part.
I bring my hand to the neckline of my dress. Slowly, I pull the fabric aside, revealing my breast.
His eyes glue to my skin. "Perfect."
"Really? Not too small?"
"We talked about this."
"I know. It's just… the women who are presented as sexy are always—"
"Blondes with fake tits?"
"Yeah," I say.
"It's not the size." He cups my breast with his palm. Rolls his thumb over my nipple.
A groan falls from my lips.
"It's that. The way you react to me." He does it again, only softer, so softly I can barely feel it.
"Patrick—"
"Yeah, baby?" He does it again. Again.
"Please."
"Please…"
"I need to touch you."
"Is that part of it?" He runs his fingers over the over side of my dress, tracing the neckline up and down. "Do you want to touch me in public?"
"Yes."
"Fuck me in public?"
"One day."
"Now?"
"This."
"This," he agrees.
Patrick traces the neckline of my dress again and again. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
The song shifts to something else, a mumbly indie rock jam. It's not sexy, not really, but in the circumstance, it feels sultry. It feels right.
He scoots a little closer.
He traces the line again.
Then he pushes both sides of my dress open. He covers one breast with his hand. He curls the other around my neck and he leans into a slow, deep kiss.
It starts softly. His lips on mine. The taste of gin and sugar and quinine.
My lips part. His tongue slips into my mouth and dances with mine.
He leads.
I follow.
I release a little more control. Because I trust him with my body. I trust him to lead. Sure, it's more sexual than anything, but that's something.
That's a lot.
He toys with my nipple as he kisses me.
I kiss him back; I melt into his body; I give in to the desire buzzing through my body.
I stop fighting, pushing, trying.
I feel every raw drop of perfect, agonizing need.
He teases me again and again, then he moves to my other breast and toys with me there. All the time, his lips stay locked to mine. He kisses me harder and deeper, claiming more of me, promising more of him.
It feels like we go forever. For hours.
Finally, he comes up for air. He pulls back, but he leaves my dress where it is, leaves me exposed to him in the crowded bar.
He takes a long sip of his drink.
I do the same with mine.
He rakes his eyes over my body, studying every exposed inch. "You like this?"
"Yes."
"Being on display?"
"Yes."
"Good. I like to watch."
How can the simple words make my sex clench? Did my new meds turn me into a freak? Or am I finally in touch with the sexual side of myself?
I don't even care.
I only care about finding more satisfaction.
"I'm going to watch," he says. "Later."
"Later?"
He nods. "But now—" He curls his hand around my leg, just above my knee.
He's cold from the glass, but that only makes me hotter.
"Now…" He traces a line up my leg. "Now you're going to come on my hand."
I nod.
He pulls me into another slow, deep kiss.
I part my legs to make way for his hand.
I part my lips to make way for his tongue.
He kisses me hard. I let him lead, but I kiss back, pouring every bit of need into the gesture.
His thumb finds my clit.
His other hand goes to my chest.
He toys with my nipple as he rubs me with perfect, slow strokes.
Again and again.
Then a little faster.
A little harder.
Exactly what I need.
I slip my hand under his shirt. I dig my fingers into his skin. Then my nails. Until my gesture is hard enough, he groans against my lips.
He keeps the same perfect rhythm.
Every stroke pushes me closer to the edge. I'm not sure how I take more. I'm already so keyed up, so ready, so consumed by need.
The tension winds tighter and tighter.
So tight I'm sure I'm going to break.
But I don't.
I unfurl.
Pleasure spills through my body as I come. My sex pulses. My toes curl. My nails dig into his skin.
Bliss fills every cell.
The world is a big, beautiful place of want and need and the best kind of satisfaction.
He kisses me, rubbing me through my orgasm.
When he finally pulls back, he rights my clothes and brings his thumb to his lips.
He sucks the taste of me from his digit.