Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
I want to claim her in every single forbidden way.
I kiss her ravenously, our tongues stroking, our lips consuming, and this feels dangerously close to fucking. I break the kiss, needing to get a handle on the situation.
Maybe.
Maybe.
I stroke her blonde hair, brushing some strands from her face, then gaze at her swollen lips. I did that. And this flush on her chest? Yeah, that belongs to me. “I want everyone to know you’re taken,” I tell her in a harsh whisper and a barren confession that surprises me.
I don’t usually feel this way. This…possessive.
I can’t have her, yet I want to keep her all to myself.
Her blue eyes flicker. “I’m not seeing anyone. Not for real. You have to know that,” she says as she slides a hand up my shirt, grips the collar. “You’re the only one I want.”
I breathe out hard, trying to get a grip. “I want you so much it’s driving me crazy,” I say, then drop my face to her neck and lick a path up her throat, reveling in the heady, delicious taste of her. “I’m dying to go down on you. Want to make you come on my lips. I fucking missed you.”
She shudders and parts her legs wider.
I’m helpless. She’s irresistible.
I raise my face, a wicked grin forming on my lips. Nothing else matters right now but this sizzling connection. This wild spark between her and me.
The world can go to hell.
She’s melting, and I’m running a hand down her blouse, over the buttons, on a mad path to her sweet pussy.
All I want is another taste of her. And I’ve got to have it. Now.
My hand journeys up the soft flesh of her thighs. I can feel her heat before I touch her. Can sense how wet she is. And when I reach the apex of her thighs and run my finger down the soaked panel of her panties, my chest swells with pride.
I nuzzle her neck. “You’re so wet,” I say, praising her as I stroke.
“Touch me,” she pleads, sounding like she’s seconds away from coming, feeling like it, too, as I stroke her through her wet panties.
“I will,” I say, then I hook a finger around the seam.
I’m so ready to please her. So ready to eat her, taste her, make her come ridiculously hard. But as I stroke her slickness, my phone buzzes.
Loud and insistent.
With my son’s ringtone.
22
OLD STANDARDS
Nick
I’m definitely not winning any parent of the year awards. Good dads don’t scramble to lift their son’s friend off the counter, then wash their hands while talking to their kid.
“What’s going on, kiddo?” Do I sound too chipper or what?
Layla doesn’t even look my way as she flies through the living room, toward the bathroom, presumably. Meanwhile, David says, “I got the sublet! I’m moving out.”
My first thought is embarrassing so I squash it. I won’t go there. I will not think that his absence will make it easier for my sex life.
You don’t have a sex life, man.
“That’s great. I’ll miss you, but I get that you want your own place,” I say, meaning it. I swear I mean it. I’m happy for my boy.
“I can move in tomorrow, but I don’t think I can get everything done tonight and still meet you guys. Can you ask Layla to swing by Kip’s home to get the golf clubs?”
Kip. Fucking Kip. Why does it always come back to the guy who gets to date her?
“Sure. Does she know where he lives? Wait. Just text it to her,” I say, since I shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t care, shouldn’t be involved in Layla’s dating life.
What I should do is send her on her merry way and ask my son how I can help with his passion.
“I sent it to her,” David says. “He’s on Central Park West. Not too far from her place, so it should be easy. Maybe she can grab it and bring it over tomorrow?”
“Sure. We’ll sort it out. And listen, I’m done with all those calls to guests. We’ve got lots of people coming. Why don’t you let me know what else I can do while Layla’s getting the golf stuff? What do you want me to pick up? I’m at your service,” I say, like that exonerates me.
Like my willingness to play gopher will cover up my sins.
My lies.
My ferocious appetite for his friend.
I drop my head, shaking it in disgust.
David clucks his tongue. “Actually, I can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner. But maybe just see if Layla wants help?” Then he lowers his voice, perhaps in case she’s nearby. “She might not want to drag golf clubs around the city. She doesn’t love to be alone at night.”
Alarm bells sound. “I’ll go with her.”
We say goodbye just as Layla emerges from the bathroom. She’s put together again, her skirt straightened perfectly, her hair smoothed neatly. Her lipstick reapplied.