Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 132(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 88(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 132(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 88(@300wpm)
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“I mean…” I shrug. “I don’t make a lot of time for them.”
This time, he definitely pulls me closer, although he is beginning to look conflicted. His brow is puckered, his jaw bunched. “Shouldn’t be asking you this, but…” After the barest hesitation, his nose traces the curve of my neck and I almost pass out from the resulting tingles. “Would you make time for me?”
“Would I?” I respond, barely above a whisper, the muscles below my belly button starting to quiver. “Would I make time for you?”
“Yeah. If you weren’t a college kid and I…”
Something horrible occurs to me. A reminder of the conversation I had with Kandice and Becca. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
“No.” Before he even responds, I’m already pulling away in fear of the answer, but he wraps his arms around me and yanks me into his chest. Tight. “I’m single. Same as you.” His breath warms my lips. “That ain’t the problem.”
“I…there’s a problem?”
“Oh, I’d say there’s a problem.”
“What is it?”
“You needed a fake ID to get in here and despite that…I still want to get my hands under your fucking skirt, gorgeous. I’d say that’s a real problem.”
two
Bobby
Christ almighty.
There’s something about this girl, man.
It takes a five-alarm fire to steal my attention from a Sox game, but as soon as this co-ed came through the crowd in all her good-girl glory, my mouth went bone dry and my thoughts went up in a cloud of smoke. Beautiful doesn’t even come close to describing her. She’s a brunette. Leggy as fuck. Big, intelligent doe eyes. There’s something extra, too, that I can’t quite put into words. It’s like an intuition I’ve never had about anyone else—nor did I ever expect to feel. She’s the keeping kind. A man dreams of bringing a woman like this home to his parents.
Here she is, folks. The woman who is going to carry my children.
On the inside, I’d be thinking, she’s also the woman I fuck relentlessly. Morning and night. Because she’s just that goddamn hot.
Does she have any idea that her squeezable tits are smashed up against my chest right now? One little boost and she could wrap her thighs around me. I’d love that. I’d love this whole bar to know she’s coming home with me. That her panties are going to be on my floor.
I’d love it, but…it’s not happening, right? It shouldn’t happen.
It’s hard to put into words why it shouldn’t happen, though. She’s young, but she’s at least eighteen, maybe older. I can tell that much. It wouldn’t be the first time a man brought home a college girl from a bar. Hell, my fellow thirty-something friends do it every couple of weeks. But I don’t. I don’t do that shit. Until this very moment, I wasn’t sure why I’ve never felt the urge to engage in a meaningless hook-up, though.
I’ve been waiting for this feeling.
This feeling. The one she gives me.
I recognized a long time ago that I wasn’t a casual relationship man. I’m a man who commits one hundred percent to something once I’ve made my mind up. I’m wholly committed to the fire department, my family, staying in shape, the Sox. But I’d given up on wanting to give this kind of commitment to a member of the opposite sex. I’ve been attracted to women, but I’ve never been compelled by one. Knocked sideways. Captivated. Not like this.
Why does she have to be so fucking young?
You needed a fake ID to get in here and despite that…I still want to get my hands under your fucking skirt, gorgeous. I’d say that’s a real problem.
My statement is still lingering in the air.
Of course, I’ve scandalized her. She’s turning pink, squirming around against my lap in ways that are making my cock the size of a restaurant pepper grinder. Over the top of her head, I fleetingly catch the eyes of my friends—and they’re visibly shocked. Not even bothering to pretend they’re watching the game. Which tracks, because like I said, I don’t engage with a lot of females. If I do, it’s usually because their building is on fire and I’m telling them to get the fuck out now.
I give my men the middle finger behind her back and they return the gesture without hesitation. When they continue to look at my girl, though, I give them a look I didn’t know I had in me. I look at them like I’ll kill them if they continue looking for one more second at what’s mine—and I mean it. God help me.
They both look the opposite direction. Quickly.
Smart men.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to that,” she whispers, finally, responding to my crude admission. “But telling me you w-want to put your hands up my skirt is inappropriate. We’ve only just met. I don’t even know your name.”