Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
The intensified squeezing around my shaft indicates this is exactly the shit she wants to hear. “I’m a good little slut.”
“Yes, you fucking are.” This swat is given in a rewarding nature and in turn gets her slick muscles pulsing harder. Slightly faster. “And tell me whose cock this is.” When the instruction is yet again met by reluctance a coordinated pull of the hair and strike to the ass are delivered. “Fucking tell me, baby.”
“Mine,” Harlow quietly replies, breath unable to get steady.
“Louder.”
The volume increases the tiniest. “Mine.”
“Fucking. Louder.”
“Mine!” She screeches to the ceiling.
The neighbors.
The whole fucking state.
“That’s right,” I purr, gliding my hands around her hip, heading straight for her clit. “And whose fucking cum do you want in that tight little pussy?”
“Yours,” she airily proclaims as my index finger lightly brushes where she’s dying to have it. “Yours!”
Her unprompted screaming causes me to arrogantly chuckle and resume my faster paced pumping along with more frantic rubbing. Unable to withstand the amount of pleasure body checking the amount of pain skating through her system leads to her exploding around my shaft in a matter of a few short breaths. Harlow wails like she’s dying and trembles like she’s on the brink of collapsing and claws at the couch like she’s digging for fucking buried treasure all the while milking my cock. Gripping and grasping and grinding, entire body being thrown into my ceaseless jerks, shaky frame unyielding until I’m unloading long, scorching hot ropes deep inside on bestial huffs at which point she shatters again.
And again.
Back to back to back orgasms?!
Holy. Fuck.
I knew this shit would be better when I was sober, but I didn’t expect it to be this good.
Or for us to go this hard.
Maybe everything feels this incredible because it’s our first time together?
Or because there’s no glove?
Or maybe…is it…possible…everything is this mind fucking blowing because it’s with the one person I never wanna be without?
Harlow
No fires.
No drownings.
No fighting.
Er…no brawls I should say.
At least not yet.
With the way Page won’t stop running his mouth, it’s safe to assume it’s only a matter of time.
“Yes b’y.” Page loudly chuckles from the poolside edge he’s leaned against in the water, plastic cup being tipped towards Laurence Lazar—aka Lazo—our new goaltender coach. “How can we be having this conversation about the greatest sports movies of all time and exclude Dodgeball?”
“Maybe because I thought we were having an adult conversation and not one with the thirteen-year-old versions of yourselves?” I playfully poke back at the same time I toss Cookies a treat to distract her from trying to take the goodies being thrown Cream’s direction from Somerfield’s two kids. “Now, let’s work this shit again.”
McVie’s wife shoots me a disapproving expression for the tenth time from the patio couch she’s occupying with her small child on the opposite end of the area.
Ugh.
Forfucksake, I’m doing the best I can!
What does she want me to do? Wear a shock collar around my neck for the rest of this outing just so her precious baby boy doesn’t hear too many “potty” words?
God, should I be more worried that the twins are gonna drop an f bomb as their first word?!
Wait.
This is me we’re talking about.
Chances are their first word will be hockey.
Or Dad and then hockey.
Which was the case for me.
And honestly, I wouldn’t mind if it was the case for them, either.
I think Brendan is going to be an amazing father and not just because he’s reading the parenting books, I keep promising I will.
I mean…I probably will.
I know you’re supposed to study the rules when starting a new sport…it’s just…so much of this shit seems to come natural to him. Like how he puts headphones on my stomach to play them 2CELLOS while we watch Guy’s Grocery Games or the Mighty Ducks: The Animated Series. Or the way he ordered me a pregnancy pillow after researching for the best one on his lunch break.
Shit like that tells me I’ve totally signed a fucking winner to this season.
Which is good since I’m still struggling just to take the right vitamins.
And also hating the fact they’re not all in gummy form.
“It’s gotta be Rudy,” McVie states, dropping his legs into the water not too far from Page. “Hands down. The definition of classic.”
“Classic, yes, personal favorite? No.” Somerfield turns our direction despite the fact his son is still throwing things out for Cream to eat. “Gotta go Rocky.”
“Because they didn’t know how to stop fucking making them?” Brendan taunts, briefly angling away from the cooking area he’s practically spent all afternoon at.
We all laugh at the retort, yet it’s Craig who puts his plastic cup down on the edge of the pool to comment. “Moneyball.”
“Fuck baseball,” most of the present players—and myself—immediately chirp back.
“Oh, but I love Trouble with the Curve,” his girlfriend quickly announces, fake tits bouncing during her whining. “It’s so dramatical.”