Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 124494 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124494 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
I watch him in the mirror, my nipples peaking against my sleep tank. Not for the first time, I wish I’d packed sexy lingerie for this trip. Although I’ve spent the better part of the last twenty-four hours naked.
Roman’s forearms flex as he gathers hair with his pinkie, feeding it into the braid. When he’s finished, I pass him the hair tie, and he secures the end. Then he wraps it around his fist, tugging gently as his lips skim my neck. His other hand slides down my stomach to cup between my thighs. “I’m going to enjoy holding this when I ruin your pussy,” he growls in my ear.
The sound turns into a grating beep. My eyes pop open. My sheets are twisted around my thighs, I’m sweaty, and my hand is in my underpants. “Seriously?” I shoot my phone a dirty look as I silence my alarm. I was just getting to the good part.
This is the fifth time in as many days that I’ve woken from an explicit dream featuring Roman. I thought they would settle down with time, not ramp up. Between ice time and the past two exhibition games, one of which we lost, I would have thought working together would dull his effect.
But apparently, my vagina is pining for Roman’s cock.
I can’t go to work like this. I need some release. But we’re living in a three-bedroom condo. And half the time Callie crawls into bed with me around this time. The bathroom is the only place I have decent privacy. It’s five thirty. I don’t leave for work until seven, and Fee doesn’t get up until six. Decision made, I grab my mini faux-makeup case of adult devices from my nightstand drawer—I learned to hide them after Callie almost found my clit sucker charging in the bathroom—and rush across the hall.
I lock the door and turn on the fan. The one in our old house sounded like a plane was landing in the bathroom, but at least no one could hear me moan. This one is new and unfortunately quiet. I strip out of my nightshirt and panties, grab my waterproof toy, and step into the shower.
And because I’m weak, I call upon the memories of my weekend with Roman. It’s what I always do when I need a fast and dirty orgasm. I slide my vibrator inside me, turn it up to the highest setting, and let my eyes fall closed as the memories hit me—the phantom press of his hand on my hip, the other gripping my breast as I straddled his thighs and rode his gloriously thick cock. Or how he made good on his promise to hold my braid around his fist.
Orgasm one slams through me, and I sink to my knees. I’m all about stockpiling, because who knows when I’ll have ten minutes to myself again? I go for orgasm number two, remembering the way he dragged me to the edge of the bed, dropped to his knees, and tongue-fucked my pussy until I was screaming his name. Then he flipped me over and pounded me into the mattress until I was delirious. Orgasm two hits like a lightning strike.
I let the water beat against my back as I catch my breath and try, desperately, to shut down the other memories. It hadn’t just been sex. He’d ordered room service, pulled me into his lap on the couch, and fed me caramel-drenched apple slices. Which led to more sex and creative uses for the caramel sauce. And when we were both too exhausted to move, he curved his body around mine in the night and held me close. Possessive and tight.
That’s enough fantasizing, I tell myself. You can’t be his. I cut the water.
All my heat and need dissipate as I remind myself that I worked my ass off to get this job. Being attracted to Roman is an inconvenience I can’t afford to indulge outside of the privacy of my own bedroom. Or the shower. We can’t happen. Not now. Probably not ever. Besides, he can’t be in the same room with me for more than five minutes without getting antsy. I assume it’s because of the awkwardness and not because his memories of our time together keep popping up like an X-rated game of Whac-A-Mole. Which makes getting myself off to the memory of him even more pathetic.
I wrap myself in a towel, stuff my fun-time toys into my tote, and throw open the bathroom door. “Shit! What the hell, Fee?” My sister is standing outside the door, wearing her creepy smile—the one that makes her look like she should have a role in a horror film.
She glances down at the makeup case and arches a brow. “You better not have used all the hot water.”
I roll my eyes. “I changed your diapers. You don’t scare me.”