Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
“I feel like I have to fuck you politely,” one had said.
Kane most definitely didn’t fuck me politely.
“I feel like you’re grading me and making me a failure at having sex,” another had told me.
If Kane thought I was grading him, he didn’t make it known. And he sure as hell didn’t fail.
We hadn’t spoken. Not apart from the name screaming, and his exceptional dirty talk that made my toes blush.
The sex had concluded. At least I thought it had. But then we’d done it again. And again.
Once on the floor of the entryway, once on the floor of his bedroom and once in the actual bed.
My body was incapable of producing more orgasms, I was sure. And as impressive as Kane was, I assumed he’d need a cooldown period of some sort.
We were both fully naked, both flat on our backs, staring at the ceiling, breathing heavily, covered in a thin sheen of sweat.
I wasn’t self-conscious about my perspiration. Kane’s tongue had already tasted it, and it hadn’t seemed to put him off. The opposite really; he’d loved the carnal act of licking my sweat, and despite my penchant for cleanliness in all areas of my life, I’d loved it too. It felt lascivious and dirty and right.
Nor was I self-conscious about the long period of silence we enjoyed as the dust settled. It was nice. I didn’t feel the need to stroke his ego, to tell him how amazing he was, didn’t feel insecure about my performance since he’d made it abundantly clear he’d enjoyed himself. He obviously didn’t feel the need to talk either.
Until now.
“Do you like fettuccine?”
I opened my mouth, searching for a response.
Though it stood to reason Kane would speak eventually, that was most definitely not what I thought he’d say.
There was only one way to answer when Kane ‘The Devil’ Rhodes asked you if you liked pasta after he’d fucked you three times.
“Yes.”
“Great, stay here. I’ll whip us up some.”
Kane leaned down to kiss me.
Not a peck on the lips kiss. He kissed me. Completely. With vigor.
I got the impression Kane didn’t do anything by halves.
That impression was helped when his hand trailed down my naked body to cup me possessively between my legs, fingers exploring the area that was sensitive yet immediately wet for him.
He grinned wickedly as he pushed off the bed and put those same fingers in his mouth.
“Babe, I make a bomb ass fettuccini, but I don’t think I’ll ever taste anything as fucking spectacular as that cunt.”
My eyelids fluttered.
Vulgar. Vigor. I liked it.
“Well, maybe once you try my food you’ll have a different opinion,” I replied, my voice lazy, soft almost.
His grin turned cheeky and playful. “I don’t doubt your capability in the kitchen, but I do doubt there’s a plate on Earth that can rival that.”
With that parting note, he got out of bed and left the bedroom. I could only guess that he was going to cook fettuccine naked.
Not something that would’ve been appealing to me in any other circumstances. It was unhygienic and impractical. But the image of Kane doing it was very appetizing indeed.
I sank back into the bed and stared at the ceiling.
He’d ordered me to stay here. No one ordered me to do anything. It was the other way around. Even in the bedroom … up until now.
I’d happily and without resistance submitted to Kane. I enjoyed it immensely, being able to let go of the reins and just enjoy the ride. No pun intended.
But now that the sex had concluded—at least for now, though a carnal and greedy part of me wanted more—I did not want to heed orders. I did not want to stare at a ceiling and guess whether Kane was downstairs cooking naked. I wanted to find out for myself.
Kane, in fact, was cooking naked.
It was the view of his ass, his muscular and tattooed back at the stove that greeted me when I walked into the kitchen—not naked.
I’d put on a tee I’d found in a suitcase discarded in the walk-in closet, clothes spilling out of it. Kane was just staying there, after all, and it didn’t surprise me that he wasn’t the type to keep everything neatly folded.
I was the type to keep everything neatly folded and organized. Everything in my apartment and kitchen was color-coded, alphabetized, systematic. Messy men irritated me. Kane did not. For whatever reason.
I’d grabbed the first shirt I could find. It was soft from countless washes, worn so much the print had faded into nothing. It smelled faintly of laundry powder but mostly of him. Because of our height difference, it hit me mid-thigh. I had curves that meant I was never the woman who put on her boyfriend’s clothes and was dwarfed by them. Not that I was the type to put on my boyfriend’s clothes. What was the point in that? I had clothes of my own. I’d always thought it was a ridiculous thing that only happened in cheesy rom-coms.