Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 125694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Devon fisted his thick, engorged cock, rolling it along my slit, slapping my clit with it. We both watched intently, our hot breaths mixing together.
He pushed his tip inside me to find that I was completely soaked. His eyes traveled up. We both grinned at each other. I nodded once, giving him permission.
He slid his entire cock inside me, grabbed the back of my thighs, and began fucking me against the wall. The cold surface behind me dug between my shoulder blades.
And yet I didn’t care.
Didn’t care Devon was still fully clothed.
Didn’t care it was the middle of the night and I was moaning loud enough to wake up people in Wisconsin.
Did. Not. Care. About anything other than the moment we were sharing.
The intense pleasure of having him inside me again was gratifying, but it was the possibility of creating another life that made me feel frenzied.
We came together, wave after wave of pleasure crashing through me. It was different from the times before. The orgasm was great, but when he started to come and I felt the hot, sticky liquid spilling inside me, we both held each other’s gazes, quivering in each other’s arms, smiling. The fact that he was so present exhilarated me.
He lowered me down to the floor carefully, taking a step back. I read somewhere in one of my internet hunts that it was a good idea to lie on the bed with my legs up to increase my chances of conceiving. Suddenly, I was slammed with a hurry to do just that.
“Well.” I swayed my hips as I plucked a robe from a hanger, wrapping it around me, feeling less dignified than I looked as traces of his cum slithered down my inner thigh. “Thank you for your services. Now if you could kindly get the fuck out of my apartment, I would appreciate it greatly.”
Again, I used the same fake British accent I hoped was going to make him dislike me.
His pants—or trousers, if to go by what he called them—were down to his knees. He re-tucked his shirt into them, taking his time to make himself presentable.
“I’ll be off to England for the remainder of the week, as I mentioned—” he began, but now it was my turn to catch him off guard.
“Dude. I’m not going to need you until next month, if at all. Share your schedule with someone who cares.”
I shoved him toward my front door. Normally, moving a tall, built man of his size wasn’t that easy. But since his pants were still half-done, he lost his footing and stumbled backward a little.
“You’re as refined as an alley cat,” he said with great satisfaction.
“I’m not the one who threw a half-asleep person into a cold shower.” I gave him another shove.
He made a show of pretending to bite my hand as I pushed him. “I regret nothing, Sweven. It was a pleasure to fuck you.”
“And a one-off,” I reminded him, opening the door behind him and giving him a final thrust. “Also, don’t try to make Sweven happen. We’re not those people.”
Outside, in the communal hallway, half dressed and laughing gruffly, still hopping from side to side as he pulled his pants on, he gave me the most devastating smirk I’d ever seen. I had to remind myself that he was a flirt and a rake. A man who, despite his beautiful face, had an ugly rap sheet with the ladies.
“You don’t know what kind of person I am. But you’re about to find out.”
The bad news was that I’d accidentally made it to my father’s funeral.
The good news was that I was so happy to spot Mum and Cece, not even the fact I was there honoring my father managed to put a damper on my mood.
The original plan was to arrive a day after the funeral. They must’ve conducted the funeral a day early, seeing as they did not need to accommodate my schedule any longer. I showed up during the last act, when the casket was lowered into the ground.
My father was buried in the back of Whitehall Court Castle, by a deserted church, where his ancestors had been buried. Where, presumably, I would one day rest for eternity too.
My childhood home was a grand fortress. With medieval-style turrets, Gothic Revival architecture, granite and marble, and an unholy amount of arched windows. The castle was surrounded by a horseshoe-shaped garden at the front, and an out-of-service old church around the back. There were two barns, four servant cottages, and a manicured walkway leading to a wild forest.
On a clear day, you could see the French coast from Whitehall Court Castle’s rooftop. Memories of my younger self, lean and bronzed, daring the sun to burn me alive and melt me into the stone I’d lain upon, chased one another in my head.