Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 68286 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 341(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68286 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 341(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
"Fuck!" Luke roars. He's so loud in the quiet room it startles me for a second before he's ripping my flannel pajama pants down my legs and lowering his own. He doesn't even get his
pants all the way down before he's inside of me.
He strokes back and forth, so deep, kissing me long and hard while he's burrowed within me, before pulling back enough to watch himself slide in and out of my body.
"I won't come in you, Sophie."
It takes me a moment to realize he never put on a condom. I'm not sure if we're still roleplaying or not, but I trust him enough not to worry about it further. I'm on the pill, which I
take every day faithfully.
He gives up watching to drive into me. He's still got his feet on the floor and my back is on the bed with my pelvis raised, legs over his shoulders. He pounds into me, our skin slapping
in the quiet room, my moans as quiet as I am able to keep them.
He changes the angle and presses down on my clit with his thumb and I come all over his cock. He pulls out and orders me on my knees. "On the floor, now. You're going to suck my cock and
swallow." He has to help me off the bed, my body a wet noodle after that orgasm, but I obey and sink to my knees before him. He slides into my mouth the moment my knees hit the floor.
"Taste yourself, Sophie. You just came all over me and now you're gonna swallow my come."
I moan around his dick and he asks me if I like it. The insides of my thighs are slick and his words are making me wetter.
He grabs the side of my face and fucks my mouth. No gentle teasing now, he just takes. His hands are knotted in my hair when he comes and it's easy to swallow it all at this angle, most
of it bypassing my tongue and going straight down the back of my throat.
He picks me up off the floor when I'm done and lays me on top of him in my small bed while our heart rates decrease. "You filthy bitch." He slaps my ass as I lie on top of him, running
my nails lightly across his chest.
"What?" I'm so tired. Why is he still talking? "What did I do?"
"You masturbated while thinking about me, apparently."
"Oh my God." I stop running my nails across his chest so I can hide my face in my hands. "I didn't mean to tell you that. You had me all worked up. Just… forget I said that."
His chest shakes as he laughs at me. "Not a chance."
Chapter 20
I slide the pie into Luke's high-end Miele stainless-steel oven and search for a timer.
"How long?" Luke walks up behind me and presses my body into the oven, his front to my back. My hair is up in a bun while I bake, leaving my neck wide open, which he takes advantage of
with his mouth. I lean into his touch, desire warming my skin.
"Forty-five minutes," I tell him and he punches the time into a digital panel on the stove before turning me to face him.
"You smell like nutmeg."
"Does that turn you on, Dr. Miller?"
He laughs. "Everything about you turns me on, Miss Tisdale." He's walking me backwards, hands on my waist until my butt hits the kitchen island before he picks me up and sits me on the
counter. He spreads my legs and stands between them, then pins me in place by placing his hands on either side of me on the granite countertop.
"Sophie." He touches his forehead to mine then tilts his head and kisses me briefly before stepping back. "We need to talk."
What? My eyes fly to his and my heart races as I try to piece together what he wants to talk about. I thought we resolved everything yesterday at my dorm. After the awful day at his
parents and the incredible dorm sex that followed, he told me to grab enough stuff for the weekend and took me back to his condo.
We went out this morning hand in hand for coffee and bagels before hitting the grocery story for pumpkin pie ingredients. Luke mentioned the store had pies already prepared, but quickly
shut up at the look on my face.
Now he leans against the counter across from me and sighs, running a hand over his face before crossing his arms across his chest and looking at my feet dangling off his countertop.
"What the hell are on your feet?"
"Turkey socks," I reply, wiggling my toes.
He shakes his head in response. Yeah, I don't think my socks are what he wants to talk about. What is it? Have I trashed his kitchen? Is he some kind of obsessive-compulsive about to
flip out over dirty mixing bowls?