Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Her little sighs turn to heavy breathing, and I know she has her eyes squeezed shut without having to look. Whether it’s because she’s embarrassed, whether it’s because she’s picturing someone else, or whether it’s because she was trying to concentrate on the way it feels, I do not know.
But she won’t look at me.
Her fingers tug at my dick, occasionally dipping below to tickle my balls. Don’t neglect the balls…
She spreads her legs a little more so I can stroke her easier and use more fingers.
She lifts her head, and we’re kissing again as if she just couldn’t stand it anymore, having her head buried in my chest and not having her lips on mine. I couldn’t even give a shit that we haven’t brushed our teeth; this lazy finger-banging session is so fucking sexy I’m going to be thinking about it all goddamn day. I just know it.
I can feel when she’s about to come; she’s giving me a few clues. Her mouth is open, and she’s breathing heavily. I can feel it on my fingers too.
Who knew this little prim and proper kindergarten teacher had this much passion hidden away.
Hidden away? Nah.
She doesn’t hide it away—she’s giving me all the clues that she’s a little tigress and not a kitten since the second I arrived. She’s yelled at me, scolded me, bossed me around. A prude doesn’t stand up to a man who looks like me. Usually, they cower—to be fair, I haven’t met any kindergarten teachers that I can recall.
Most of the people I come in contact with don’t tell me what they do for a living, ha ha.
Posey’s orgasm hits her, but she doesn’t stop jerking me off, her hand moving slower, but the point is, it’s still moving. Up and down, up and down, her middle finger pressing on my taint, two things at once, drowsy and sexy as hell.
When I come, she uses the sheet.
My fingers dig into her hips, urgent as my own hips spasm.
Things won’t be weird—of course not, it was just fooling around. It’s not like we were having sex. Besides, we’re two adults. I can handle being around her for another week, no problem.
And Posey isn’t the type of female who’s going to make a big deal of this.
She has that date tonight, in any case, with that dipshit Brian, whom I can’t confirm is an actual dipshit but assume that he is.
Nope.
This won’t be weird.
Not at all.
Posey is too sensible for dramatics.
Her big blue eyes look back at me as I watch her, bright and awake.
An orgasm will do that to you; wake your ass up when you wanted to stay sleeping.
“Mornin’.”
“Morning.”
Her hands are tucked now beneath her chin, prim and proper, a contradiction to the temptress stroking me off only seconds before.
There’s cum in these sheets, I remind myself.
Don’t move too far over, or it’ll be on your body.
Gross.
Posey yawns. “I’m going to make pancakes.”
She rolls toward the window and slips out of bed, adjusting the waistband of her skimpy sleep shorts. How did I not notice how sexy those were last night when I’d barged into her room?
White with blue stripes.
Mostly sheer.
Not modest, not by any means.
When she turns to stretch, I can see the darker flesh of her nipples through her white tank top. Her decent-sized breasts that I’d had in the palm of my hand.
Yeah.
This won’t be weird.
I’ve seen plenty of naked women—might not have banged most of them, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t seen ’em.
Posey leaves the room to go to the hall. The door to the bathroom closes, but I hear the water running shortly after that, then it opens again.
She doesn’t return to her bedroom.
“Well, shit. Guess I should get my ass movin’.”
It feels weird sliding out of bed after her; crazier that she ain’t coming back after what we’d just done. I hate to sound sentimental or attached—because I most certainly am not. But usually, when I sleep with someone, I at least make small talk with them afterward.
“She’s going to make pancakes.”
Things won’t be weird—of course not. It was just fooling around. Maybe I don’t want pancakes. Maybe I want cereal. Or fruit.
Or oatmeal.
Still.
Shouldn’t she be the one lying here, staring at the open door, wondering what the deal is? Instead, it’s me, squatting here in my boxers, feeling vulnerable and stupid.
Time to get a move on.
I should at least take a jog around the block or something, run off some of this tension, though the orgasm certainly helped.
Or did that make it worse?
11
posey
Don’t think about it.
Just stir the batter.
Batter.
Baby batter.
Oh God.
I almost had it in my hand—what was I thinking giving Duke Colter a hand job? In my own bed! Not only am I going to have that memory every time I close my eyes to sleep, but my room is also going to smell like him for the rest of the week.