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)
It's the hottest thing I've ever seen.
I barely manage to pick up my drink, to bring the glass to my lips. "Now?"
"Now, you wait until I'm ready to take you home and have my way with you."
Chapter Eighteen
IMOGEN
Patrick nurses his drink until the last ice cube melts. Finally, he stands, helps me out of the booth, leads me to the street.
The short walk to his apartment feels like a million miles.
I don't wait.
The second he closes the door, I push him against the wall.
He responds quickly, pulling a condom from his pocket, pushing my dress off my shoulders, peeling my skirt up my waist.
I undo the button of his jeans and rub him over his boxers.
"Fuck." He breathes into my air. "You're going to make me come."
"Fuck me." I can feel him through the fabric, hard and thick and ready for me.
I need that.
I really, really need that.
"Now." I push his jeans off his waist.
Then the boxers.
He nods, rips the foil packet with his teeth, rolls the condom over his cock.
Then he switches our positions, pins me to the door, lifts my hips.
He drives into me with one hard, deep thrust.
It's intense. If I wasn't so keyed up, it would be too much. But I am and it's not and I feel wild in the best possible way.
I arch into him.
He digs his nails into my hip, brings his lips to my neck. He sucks on my tender skin as he drives into me.
Again and again.
With perfect, slow, steady strokes.
Again, I wind quickly. I'm already wracked with desire. More desire than I thought was possible.
And I have more.
He drives into me again.
I slip my hand between my legs, rub myself as he drives into me.
Again.
Again.
The perfect mix of penetration and external stimulation.
The perfect mix of him and me.
Again.
Again.
Then he's there, thrusting through his orgasm, raking his teeth against my skin, digging his nails into my hip.
His pulsing pulls me toward the edge.
Then I fall over it.
It's harder, more intense, an agonizing mix of pleasure and pressure.
I come with intense pulses. Bliss spills through me again, consuming every other thought, consuming every ugly thing in the world.
I see stars.
Actual stars.
When I'm finished, I collapse.
He catches me, carries me to the couch, helps me out of my dress.
I sink into the cushions.
He rights his boxers. Then he sits and removes my boots and socks, one foot at a time.
"Have I told you how much I love these?" He nods to the boots sitting next to the couch.
"That particular pair?"
"You in combat boots."
"You've only seen me in them twice."
"I pictured you in only the boots after our appointment."
"Really?"
He nods. "I like you in everything, but these… with that dress."
"The one you threw on your floor?"
He laughs, picks up the dress, drapes it over the couch. "It's sexy as hell. But, more, it's you."
"You barely know me."
"I know enough."
There isn't a single objection in my brain. Yes, he mostly knows this side of me. But he knows me better than anyone here.
And all I want to do is get to know him better, let him know me more. It's not love, but it's more than lust.
"Then why are you keeping me naked?" I ask.
"That's sexy too."
I laugh. "Reasonable."
"I'm smart sometimes," he says.
"You have moments."
"You want to wear the dress?"
I have spare clothes, pajamas, but I want to wear his again. "Do you have a shirt?"
"Of course. One minute." He leans in and presses his lips to mine. "Don't move."
"Oh, I wasn't going to move."
He stands. "I wore you out."
"Mm-hmm."
He beams with pride, and he races up the stairs. I'm not sure how he has the energy, but he does.
The couch is so soft and comfortable and inviting.
He returns with a t-shirt, boxers, and a smile. "You're cute when you're shy."
"Cute?"
"Sexy."
My cheeks flush. "It's the dirty talk. It always makes me blush." It's a little early to use the word always, but, hey, this is the start of a pattern.
"And I have to think about baseball so I don't come too fast."
"That's a real thing?"
"Baseball?" he asks.
"Guys thinking about it so they… last longer."
"Yeah, baseball is boring," he says.
"But the bats are so phallic."
He laughs. "Not in a sexy way."
"The men with their hands around the bats, swinging? And the tight pants. Have you seen Mike Trout's ass?"
"You're an Angels fan?"
"I'm from Orange County."
"You want to go to a game?" he asks.
"Maybe. I used to go with my dad. He tried to get us into softball. Me and Julie. She took to it like, well, like I took to swimming."
"Like a fish to water?"
"Right. A metaphor. Uh, simile. Analogy? I think you emptied my brain. I forgot."
He smiles. "How old is she?"
"Seventeen. A senior next year. She's varsity. And she's getting scouted by all sorts of schools."
"A softball scholarship?"
I nod. "We have money, but not Ivy League tuition money. My parents got really lucky with their business. They didn't do the usual 'authentic restaurant' thing. Well, they kinda did, but they packaged it more like a Vietnamese Blue Bottle. Expensive iced coffee and pastries for hipsters."