Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 90337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
His amusement fading, he asks, “Is that right?”
I exhale before adding with a sarcastic roll of my eyes, “What can I say, it’s hard to mess with the rest when you’ve already had the best.”
“I like being the only man in your bed,” he says, rewarding my confession with his own. “Which reminds me, I don’t want you fucking anyone else until the baby is born.”
I arch a brow. “That wasn’t in the contract.”
“We’ll have to add it then,” he says, his fingers digging deeper into my curves as his cock thickens inside me. “I find myself feeling very possessive about this pussy. It’s my cock inside you or nothing until after you’ve given birth.”
“So, if I need dick while I’m pregnant? If it makes me as horny as Sydney says it’s made her?” I ask, nipples tightening as I begin to move, stroking him fully hard with slow, languid rocks of my hips. “I should come to you?”
“Come to me and on me,” he rumbles. “Bend forward. I need your tits in my mouth.”
I obey, forgetting to tell him that I’m not a huge fan of the word “tits” as he licks and sucks and bites. God, he bites me—hard enough to sting, but not hurt—and before I know it, I’m coming for him again.
I claw my fingers into his shoulders, holding on as he rolls on top of me again, finishing with wild, erratic thrusts that stoke my own bliss even higher.
This time, he stays on top as we catch our breath, still buried inside me, ensuring not a drop of him seeps out for a good five minutes, a thing I find inexplicably hot.
And a little scary.
This kink we’ve discovered is probably going to get us both in trouble, but damn…it’s going to be a hell of a lot of fun until then.
eleven
HUNTER
It’s nine a.m., and already the July heat is making the streets of lower Manhattan steam, filling the air with an aroma of sour garbage and a stale, salty, New York-specific musk that always makes me think of that phrase on the Statue of Liberty.
Give me your unwashed masses…
I’m sure most of the people bustling back and forth in this warehouse took care with their personal hygiene this morning, but in the heat and humidity, it doesn’t matter. By noon, we’ll all smell like zoo animals. The space is too big to air-condition, and the fans positioned by the hangar openings fail to move the air in any meaningful way.
The building needs to be updated to keep workers safe in a changing climate.
I add new, energy-efficient ceiling fans and cooling stations to my mental list of necessary renovations and do my best to force my attention back to the lawyer representing the business and his borderline-insulting “hard sell.”
As if I haven’t already reviewed the financials and seen with my own eyes that Duncan Shipping Fulfillment’s bottom line has been in steady decline for the past five years.
“As you can see from the financial projections for Q4, there’s a solid customer base, and really unlimited room for growth,” Brian says, with complete earnestness, making me wonder if he’s dumb, deluded, or simply an accomplished huckster.
“I do see,” I murmur, betting on “dumb” as Brian’s grin widens. He looks relieved that I seem to be agreeing with him.
“Yeah, it’s a great deal,” he babbles on. “And this family is just salt of the earth, really good people. You’ll find their customers are super loyal and so are their workers.” He motions for me to follow as he starts toward the back of the warehouse. “Let me show you the admin offices. They’re a little old, but air-conditioned, and you can meet Midge, the manager. She’s been here thirty years and keeps this place running like a well-oiled machine.”
More like a rusty machine, in need of a long-overdue shine and service, I think as I follow him, observing at least three more high-ticket repairs that will need to be addressed if I decide to invest in the venture.
As I follow him through a pair of scuffed doors and up the stairs to the offices, my mind drifts from the task at hand, back to my apartment, where I left Elaina this morning, devouring the croissants I had delivered in nothing but one of my gym t-shirts and a pair of fluffy socks.
If you’d asked me an hour before if a woman in a plain gray t-shirt and socks was the kind of thing that flipped my switch, I would have said no.
But watching her pad around my kitchen making coffee, with t-shirt fabric twitching just below her ass, it was all I could do not to sweep her up and fuck her on the countertop.
But then, I would have been late.
But I almost didn’t care.
Which is a problem.
“Mr. Mendelssohn?”