Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 116268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
“Tell me your favorite gay porn categories, and maybe I’ll answer.”
“Maybe you’ll answer,” he says, brows raised. “Okay…my favorite gay porn…” he trails off in thought. “I like big dick and rough sex.” He flicks on his blinker to take a left turn. “Have you watched any porn before?”
“Only a few times.” I can see how my mom was addicted to porn, and that’s partly why I think I stopped logging onto porn sites after the third session. “What’d you rub one out to as a teenager?”
“The Olympic male swim team,” he says and off my knotted brows, he laughs, “I’m fucking with you. I didn’t have anyone in mind specifically.” Farrow evades paparazzi in the distance by driving onto a side street. His next glance is knowing. “Not like you.”
He knows my fantasy is him.
Bluntly, Farrow emphasizes, “You can say me.”
I give him a look. “How are you not freaked out?”
“Because I wasn’t the one with the crush.”
My face contorts in a series of emotions, landing on a cringe. “I could’ve sworn the bet was to make me hard, not want to push you out of the car.”
Farrow laughs. “Tell me your fantasy. In detail.” His gaze drips down me in a searing wave before fixing on the street. “I want to hear it.”
Now his bet makes sense. He said he wouldn’t have to talk dirty. Because he planned for me to. This shouldn’t be that difficult. Every single night, we fuck in my bedroom, and then we fall asleep together. He sets his alarm for 5:40 a.m. on the dot and leaves my townhouse before Quinn wakes.
My one-night stand routine has been replaced with a Farrow Redford Keene routine—and it’s better. Hotter. But it’s inherently different.
Like right now, I can verbally describe a fantasy at noon. I’m around someone I can fuck the brains out of twenty-four-hours a day. Uninhibited, unrestricted access to the most intoxicating, euphoric experience alive. With someone I care about.
I lick my lips slowly. If I’m unleashing my fantasy to Farrow, I’m going all in. No restraint. “I have a fantasy that plays on loop.”
Farrow listens, his eyes on me every other second.
“I’m in the shower,” I continue, “and I’ve thought a ton about what that location means. So I’ll save you the trouble of psychoanalyzing me and just tell you.” I sit up straighter. “I never let anyone stay the morning and shower with me. I never trusted someone to linger like that, but my brain—for whatever damn reason—always, always lets you stay.”
Farrow has this look in his eye. Like he wants to kiss me. But knows he can’t. He grips my seat tighter.
Lower. I crave for that hand to drop lower. On me. Unzipping me. Stroking me—I shake my head once, and then just continue on, “So I’m in the shower alone, and then the door opens. And there stands…” I feign surprise. “My mortal enemy.”
He rolls his eyes. “For fuck’s sake. I may lose this shit bet if you keep cutting yourself off.” Neither of us brings up how the bet has no stakes, no odds or payouts. Except for bragging rights.
I try to be more serious. “You’re buck-ass naked.”
“Getting better.”
I shift somewhat in my seat, just visualizing the next part. “You enter the shower, shut the door, and you come up behind me.”
Farrow goes still. “Behind you?” Maybe he expected me to bend him over and pound the fuck out of him—and while that’s a good one, it’s not the one.
“Yeah.” Our breaths are heavier, my skin flush. Veins pulse in my semi-hard cock. “I’m rubbing myself, and your palm usually encases my fist on the wall. Your chest up against my back.”
Farrow has to drop his hand off my seat. He rests it on his thigh by the bulge in his black pants.
I stretch my head back, my muscles flexed and burning. I keep hardening. “After that, you do different things every time. Jerking me off, kneeling down, and sometimes I have you against the wall and I take you from behind. But occasionally…” I shift again. “You’re inside of me.”
“Wow,” Farrow breathes, “I rocked your teenage world, didn’t I?”
I flash him an annoyed smile. “I’m limp now. Thank you for that.”
Farrow glances at the hard outline in my jeans. “Your erection says you’re a fucking liar.”
“Don’t speak for my cock,” I retort, trying not to smile. He’s near-laughter, and then he drives onto our street.
We’re in the garage in a matter of seconds. Closed and secure. Hidden from the public. The only threat is Quinn in the security’s townhouse.
Farrow shuts off the ignition. We unbuckle our seatbelts. As we turn, our eyes collide first, unrestrained and pulsing with want and need—our lips meet. My tongue parting his, and I edge deeper. Our hands wrestling with each other’s buttons and zippers.