Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Igor’s entire frame melts further. “So…adopting the creepy thing was never even in the playbook.”
“Nope.”
“Making my outburst-”
“Tantrum.”
“-extra dicky.”
“Yup.”
Groans of embarrassment get me giggling yet again.
Who doesn’t love being right?
Especially with style?
This isn’t quite as good as that moment in all romantic Christmas movies where the grumpy male realizes it’s time to grovel to the sweet, sunshiny female who was just trying to make his holiday better, but it’s still in the same rating range.
“Fuck,” he grumbles and closes the gap between us, “I’m really, really sorry for the shit response. I was just…”
“Acting like Bella.” I gently place a loving hand on his leg. “And just like Bella, I need you to work on doing better. Okay?”
His conceding is barely above a whisper, “Okay.”
My hand twitches to move elsewhere yet his fingers warmly land on top of it.
Curl protectively.
Cradle as if they’re holding the most precious object in the world.
Keeping the same hushed tone, Igor sweetly proclaims, “YA skuchal po tebe, Joeski.”
I thoughtlessly lean over until my frame is braced against his. “I missed you too, Ig.”
Our faces naturally inch closer together as he seductively coos, “Can I show you how much?”
A small nod is all I manage to muster up before his mouth is pouncing mine.
It’s forceful.
And firm.
And filled with determination to illustrate the exact magnitude.
The swift spreading of my lips receives a meek squeak that seems to be his cue to suit up.
Take the ice.
Show me what the C he wears on his chest really stands for.
Feverish lashes from his tongue immediately begin in rapid succession, striking and stroking and stroking and striking nonstop, ceaselessly swiping away any opportunity to steal even the tiniest of breath needed to keep up with his pacing. Controlling the speed has him completely controlling the moment as I’m left with no choice but to claw needily at his gray sweatpants. Use the other hand to anxiously grasp his t-shirt in hopes of gaining leverage, any kind of leverage.
However, the instant I manage to gently push him away, desperate to give my lungs the reprieve it’s obvious he didn’t plan on giving them, his stretched-out arm falls to my shoulder.
Curls around my neck.
Traps me in its crook, leaving me once more at his irrefutable mercy.
Two more wild whirls are executed before Igor tilts his lips back to ravenously whisper, “Look at me, baby.”
Despite how heavy and hooded my gaze is, it manages to find his.
Become completely paralyzed in place.
Powerless to the pale shade that’s glowing in the moonlight.
“Otkroyte dlya menya.”
My legs mindlessly open, acting on instinct, rather than an actual knowledge of what he said.
Who the fuck knows.
Maybe my pussy is bilingual and forgot to tell me.
“Da,” growls the burly man at the same time his hand greedily cups my pussy. “Ty moya.” He flexes his fingers to emphasize his possession. “Skazhi eto.”
The words that leave me are mostly made of breath, “I’m yours.”
“Then fuck my hand like it.”
Loud whimpers are attached to a fruitless effort to squeeze my thighs shut to dull the pang sparked by his command. Igor instantly tightens his hold, using the edge of his palm to pitiless press against my clit, prompting my hips to rise all on their own, driven to have more of the delectable pressure.
Drool-worthy friction.
“Atta girl,” he brutishly praises, teeth taking a tiny nibble out of my bottom lip. “Fuck my hand, like you wanna fuck me, Joeski.”
Santa knows that’s the wish at the top of my goddamn list.
Ugh.
Correction.
It’s the only wish on my fucking list.
And it’s written in all caps.
Bold print.
Outlined in glitter and flashlight lights with blinking arrows pointing to it.
I’ve never wanted to bang another human being this bad in my entire life.
And that includes Hugh Grant who I developed an unhealthy attraction for thanks to Love Actually.
Igor rocking his hand is accompanied by him dragging his tongue across the territory he just bit. “Ya vsya tvoya.” Another nip is given. “Only yours, Slayer.”
Whether it’s the proclamation that he belongs to me like I belong to him or the label that informs me we really are on the same team when it comes to the boundaries of this relationship that gets me going isn’t quite clear.
But then again…it doesn’t really matter.
What matters is how frantically I get my lower half grinding.
How thrusting into his palm slightly hitches my breath, yet rolling around in circles gets it choppy.
And my panties soaking.
Both hands grasp onto Igor’s vintage Princess Bride book t-shirt for leverage during the continual spinning, and the repeated brushing of my chest against his during each additional motion hardens my nipples.
Adds extra reasons for me to moan.
Rock faster.
Roll harder.
Frenziedly chase any and all rubbing sensations as my pussy incessantly clamps down around nothing, needing and wanting and begging to be filled.
Fucked.
Filled again with fiery hot ropes of cum.
Arching into the idea precedes me dropping one hand to his covered cock and ardently tugging it towards the area that would explode in exponential gratitude for even just the tip.