Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 122125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
“I wouldn’t be spying. Just observing. To make sure she’s safe.”
“You’d be spying, and you know it.” I flash a knowing grin at him, and he pulls me into his lap on a groan.
“Fine. I’d be spying. But it’d be for good reason. I should be able to make sure this old fuck keeps his hands to himself.”
“Wait a minute…” I pause and search his eyes. “Are you worried about something happening, or are you jealous that your mom is going on a date night that doesn’t include you?”
The other evening, when we were chatting about our families over dinner at an Italian restaurant and I was telling him about my relationship with Lydia and Lou, he mentioned that he takes his mom out on monthly date nights.
And you thought it was really fucking cute.
“A little bit of both?” he retorts on a quiet chuckle. “But mostly, I’m worried. She’s my mom, and she met some random idiot on TapNext. Pretty sure I have a right to be concerned.”
“That’s valid,” I tell him and tap his nose with my index finger. “But you need to give her space on this. She deserves it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters and slides his hands under my ass to give it a squeeze. “I’ll give her space. But you bet your ass I’ll be texting her tonight to make sure she got home okay.”
“How about you text her that?” I suggest. “Just tell her to have fun, but that you would appreciate it if she let you know when she makes it home safely.”
He sighs. Searches my eyes. And then adjusts me on his lap so he can reach down and grab his phone again. His fingers fly across the screen, and I watch as he types out a message.
Ty: Three more things, Ma. #1: Have fun tonight. #2: Text me when you get home, so I know you’re safe. #3: Let that clown know if he does anything stupid, I’ll break his fucking fingers off.
“How’s that?”
“Uh…” I laugh and press a kiss to his lips before climbing out of his lap and onto my feet. “A little aggressive, but a lot better than you trying to go on her date with her.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have to pee!” I call over my shoulder.
“Grab the black bag when you come back.”
I skid to a stop in the middle of the hallway. “I’m sorry, did you say black bag?”
“I did.”
Oh boy. The black bag. The one that’s been sitting on Ty’s nightstand since Monday afternoon. A nondescript little bag that holds the item I picked out from the sex store.
Instantly, a rush of excitement sets up shop between my thighs, and I make quick work of the bathroom. Two minutes later, I have the bag in my hands and I’m handing it over to him.
“I can’t fucking wait to see what you chose.” He grins up at me and his fingers gently pry open the bag, but he doesn’t pull out my selection right away.
Instead, he just stares down at it, and all of a sudden, my excitement and anticipation start to mix with awkwardness.
I’ve been waiting for what feels forever for this moment. Almost the entire week, in fact. But now that it’s here, I don’t know what to do with myself. Or my hands. I am Rachel Rose playing Will Ferrell playing Ricky Bobby, and my hands are up and they’re down. They’re at my sides. They’re all over the damn place.
“You’re nervous,” Ty states, his eyes raking over my now-jumpy state.
“I…yeah. A little.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug and fidget my hands together. “I guess because I don’t know what you’re going to think?”
“Come here.” He shifts the bag and gestures for me to sit down in his lap. “Let’s look at it together.”
Oh boy. I don’t know why that shoots a thrill up my spine, but it does.
Once I’m back on his lap, he wraps his arms around me and slides my selection out of the bag right in front of both of us. His fingers make quick work of the small box, and then, it’s there, the item I chose.
A small, glass anal plug.
It feels like it takes him three lifetimes to say something, but I know that’s just the anxiety talking. Time whooshes in my ears, and dust floats in front of me. It’s not him going slow—it’s me having an out-of-body experience.
“Why did you choose this?” he asks me, putting me out of my uncertain misery.
I turn my head to explore his face for criticism or judgment or question, but his eyes are relaxed, and the hint of a smile sits at the corners of his mouth. It’s comforting. “Because you said it should be something a little wild, something I’ve never tried.”
“And because the idea of trying it excites you?”