Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 84829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
“I’m going to kiss you now,” I warned, my gaze roaming indiscriminately over her face, one that I’d come to know better than my own. “Then I’m going to peel away this ugly fucking sweatshirt, and worship every inch of your body with my mouth. And when you think you can’t come anymore, that I’ve wrung you dry, I’m going to fuck you and prove you wrong. If you have a problem with anything I’ve just said, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
She blinked, her mouth quivering. “This sweatshirt is not ugly.”
“Is that a yes?”
She nodded once, one chin jerk, and I pressed my mouth to hers, giving it everything I had. Moving forward, I backed her up against the kitchen island covered in cooking supplies while our mouths searched for the right angle, tongue meeting tongue, my dick painfully hard pushing into her belly.
Hands under her ass, I picked her up and dropped her on the counter. Utensils and pans fell off the edge with a loud clattering sound, and still, we didn’t stop kissing, the chemistry as explosive as it had always been. Cupping the back of her head, I stepped between her legs and made love to her mouth––to my wife’s mouth. My wife. That sounded pretty damn good to me.
“Wait!”
I pulled far enough away to get a look at her face. “What?” My gaze went straight to her swollen lips, made that way by my kisses.
“Have you slept with other women?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Never mind.”
I kissed her hard. “Your faith in me is touching, Mrs. Blackstone, and no, not since I married you.”
She kissed me harder. “Carry on.”
Grabbing the edge of the sweatshirt, I yanked it up and over her head, threw it away.
“No more Mr. Nice Guy,” I muttered against her lips and she started giggling.
“When have you ever been––”
The words died as soon as my mouth latched on to her nipple. Then she moaned, clamped her legs around my waist, and her head fell back in satisfaction. Hooking two fingers over the top of her shorts, I pulled them down and off and took her panties with them. They dropped to the floor, done for the day.
Next to her hip, there was a bowl filled with sliced strawberries and another with cake batter. I dipped a finger in the yellow stuff and painted it on her tummy, the strip of light blonde curls below taunting me. My dick was more than eager to get to the main attraction, but I’d be damned if I was going to be rushed to the finish line when I’ve been waiting for months to savor this moment.
“What are you doing?” she said in a weak voice that made me smile.
“Making living art.”
With the flat of my tongue, I licked off the vanilla-flavored batter and heard her suck in a ragged breath, her fingers sifting through my hair and closing around a handful. Her legs lifted, her heels dug into my shoulders.
“Scott…”
“You like this?” I blew on her and watched her body bow, her teeth dig into her bottom lip. More batter, this time tracing the seam of her pussy.
“Stop teasing me!”
Stifling a laugh against the sensitive skin on the inside of her knee, I pushed two fingers inside of her and kissed her there.
“Scott…”
I would’ve done anything to hear her say my name like that. Like she was about to blow past her self-control and I was the cause. To that end, I dripped more batter on my wife’s already sweet body. Some on her belly. Some I let slip down between her thighs. Then I cleaned it up with my mouth, savoring each lick, kissing every square inch of exposed skin. She was close. I could sense it, her body drawing tight. I added my fingers, sucked, and she screamed. Her hand in my hair tightened then relaxed.
One thing was for damn sure––I’d never taste vanilla again without thinking of my wife. Vanilla had just become my favorite fucking flavor.
Sydney
The hype was real. In the privacy of my mind, his name was forever going to be BHB: Believe the Hype Blackstone. He feasted on me like he was getting paid top dollar to do it…like he was a master freaking artist. And do it right, he did. I couldn’t even keep my eyes open. The onslaught of pleasure made me fall back onto the cool marble countertop of the kitchen island like I was offering myself up for sacrifice, my hands scrambling for purchase, fingers hooked around the edge.
Why did I ever not like him? What the hell had I been thinking? I could’ve been getting this for months, I thought. Ignorance is not bliss. Whoever came up with that is a moron––probably a man. Sex with Scott, on the other hand…that was bliss.
More stuff went crashing to the ground. His arms cinched like steel bands around my thighs to keep me from falling off as well. With his mouth and fingers, I came not once but twice so hard I actually screamed. He was right, I was so wrung out I was ready for a nap.