Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 95340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Arguably, there’s so much of it and a lot of ground to cover, but all he has to focus on is one spot, and we’ll both be happy.
His eyes roam.
Go ahead—stare.
Look.
Look your fill…
Still, he isn’t touching me.
So I shift, moving forward and reaching down his body, pulling the hem of his navy shirt up…up his stomach…up his chest, tugging until the light bulb goes off in his brain, and he inches forward, making it easier to take his shirt off.
Pussy. Settle yourself down…
Calm yourself.
But my, my, my is he beautiful…
Bruised. Scarred.
Has at least a half dozen cuts that I can see, along with a chiseled stomach. The most perfect clavicle.
He gets goose bumps as I gaze at him, and I reach down to take his hands, placing them on my rib cage.
His hands are shaking when they move higher, thumbs caressing the lace of my bra; my breath quickens as my heart races. I could look at him touching me all day, my gaze lowering so I can watch as his thumb hooks the cup of my bra and draws it aside.
First, he strokes my nipple with the tip of his thumb, drawing slow, leisurely circles around the areola.
So sexy…
Slowly.
Then he pushes my bra strap down so he can palm it in his hand, stroking the delicate skin.
I bite my bottom lip, wanting to grind on him, wishing he wasn’t wearing denim. But then I give in, moving my hips round and round on his lap, searching for the hard shaft in his pants.
He grips me by the waist, hands large enough to splay my stomach—that’s how large this dude is—and pulls me in, closer so his mouth can suck on my nipple.
Licking…
Sucking.
“Oh god…” My hands are in his hair, and sure, this isn’t the most comfortable position, but it’s sexy. I feel like I’m giving him a lap dance, and I know I’m giving him an eyeful.
And a mouthful.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
BRODIE
Jesus, her boobs.
I could stare at them all fucking day.
Touch them all fucking day.
Suck on them all goddamn fucking day.
My brain is so addled I can’t come up with any actual adjectives, just explicatives.
I wrap my hands around her hips and stand, lifting her at the same time ’cause, yeah—I’m strong enough to do that. Sidestepping the couch, I walk several paces to the bed and dump her into the center.
Leaning forward, I pin her down with my hands.
“I can’t fucking take it anymore.”
Her chest heaves in and out as she looks up at me from my mattress.
“Good,” she says, hair fanning out around her, sexy as fuck.
I kneel on the bed, leaning down to kiss her. Neck. Shoulder blade. Collarbone. Down to the valley between her breasts, kissing there, too. Run a palm over her boobs, marveling at how they fit in my hand and how the tip of her nipple seems to scream for more attention.
Lizzy moans.
Plows her hand into my hair as I lick and suck, doing my best not to crush her beneath my weight.
Her kisses are like booze—the kind you drink and immediately get a buzz from. Punk drunk. Intoxicating.
A kiss that has me inebriated. Lost.
Has my dick so hard that it’s painful.
Lizzy moans again, a whining, pouting-like moan that has me pulling away from the kiss and glancing down at her face.
More.
I want more, her expression tells me.
Her brows rise, and she shimmies to the middle of the bed doing a crab crawl, wearing only that lacy bra—which leaves nothing to the imagination—her white shorts unbuttoned but not unzipped, but I’m about to alleviate her of those in the next two seconds.
One less thing in the way of the honey.
Taking off a woman’s clothing is surreal. The sound of her zipper whirring down is sweet—it’s the sound of a promise and the pleasure that’s about to come if you’re doing the job right.
What I lack in experience, I make up for in enthusiasm, and that’s saying a lot.
I drag her shorts down her hips and lean back to look at her body; her hips, her thighs, her cute knees. Her stomach and belly button. The large cherry birthmark staining her inner thigh.
I drag her back to the edge of the bed.
Get down on my knees, running my hands over her legs; they’re smooth and hairless, unlike mine. Compared to her, I’m a big, hairy ox. An oaf. A veritable ogre and I literally had a girl call me that to my face once when she was pissed at me for not going home with her during a party.
Lizzy is smaller than I am—but almost everyone is, including my buddies.
Lavender thong that matches the sweatshirt she had on.
I spread her legs, pushing them apart, hands on her knees, palms run up the inside of her thighs…letting the tip of my finger trace that cherry birthmark, round and round and round in slow, slow circles.