Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82967 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82967 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Because I know how those lips taste.
The kid is terrified, and here I am fucking dreaming about her soft velvety tongue dancing with mine.
I’m a fucking asshole.
She’d looked so vulnerable last night. But when I recall it, the image of her in her tight T-shirt and panties hits me straight in the balls, and my dick twitches with appreciation as I curse silently.
Fucking douche.
She needs my protection.
Not my perversion.
Oh, she’s a tough cookie, for sure. But beneath the façade of bravado she’s terrified.
Protectiveness washes over me.
Who are you kidding, asshole?
That’s not protectiveness you’re feeling.
That’s a fucking hard-on.
For the last few days, I’ve mentally tortured myself with the image of her licking salt from her hand and sucking on limes stuck on fucking repeat in my head until I couldn’t take it anymore and had to jerk off just to be able to sleep.
Yeah, I admit it.
I rubbed my cock with that image replaying over and over in my head. But after spilling onto my fist and tightly clenched abs, I had clamped some pretty heavy mental shackles onto my thoughts and made myself promise never to think or look at Bronte like that again.
Clearly, the clamps have come off because here we are.
I push back another thought of Bronte and her curves and how well her ample breasts fill her tank top and will my focus elsewhere as my hand slides to my cock.
I just need to ease the tension.
And not think about her while I’m doing it.
I empty my mind and let it fill with the sensation of my palm sliding up and down the thick shaft.
Fucking my hand isn’t a rarity. I’m focused on the club and finding Ghost, so sex isn’t on my radar very often. When my body demands a release, it’s usually my hand I turn to. Or if we’re coming home from a ride, I drop in to see Antoinette.
My grip tightens, and my cock feels heavy and thick against my palm.
Jesus Christ, I’m hard.
I close my eyes and stroke slowly from root to tip, pausing at the head to glide my fingers over the smooth, slippery crown. Tension starts to build in my belly. My balls contract. A pearl of precum pools in the eye of my engorged head, and I swipe my thumbpad through it, dragging it down the hard column, the lube bringing the tantalizing friction to a whole new level.
Feeling the sensation build, I groan but bite down on my lower lip to snag the noise in my throat. Bronte is in the next room, and I don’t want her hearing me moan in pleasure because I’m jerking off. My hand picks up speed. I don’t want her knowing that while she’s only yards away from me, lying warm and supple in bed, I’m in here rubbing my cock not thinking about her.
Not thinking about her.
Not thinking about…
My balls tighten, full and heavy, getting ready for a much-needed release.
My cock thickens as my strokes quicken.
Without warning, her angelic face swings before my mind’s eye, her eyes wide and thickly lashed, those plush lips parted as her tongue slides out to moisten them.
I can’t help myself. All I can see is my cock sliding in and out that luscious pout.
It’s all it takes.
With a rush of pleasure, cum shoots out of me in a soaring pearlescent arc and rains down on my abs as a violent quake of ecstasy erupts through me. Despite my efforts to be quiet, I unleash a growl and pant through my orgasm, pumping my cock hard and fast of every last drop, my body quaking, my heart pounding violently against my ribcage.
Finally empty, I sink into my pillow, my brain drenched in a warm wave of dopamine and a new spark of something unwanted beginning to flicker in my heart.
Fuck.
Frustrated, I throw back the sheets and climb out of bed. I disappear into the bathroom, step into the shower, and attempt to wash away any lingering thoughts of Bronte from my mind.
Having Bronte live with me is probably a bad idea.
But there’s no turning back now.
I’ll just have to suck it up and keep my fucking hands to myself.
Later that morning, I take Bronte to the clubhouse to speak with Paw and Wyatt.
“Jack filled us in about your situation,” Wyatt says.
He’s ex-security. Before he retired, he used to do private security for everyone from television stars to visiting dignitaries.
“It’s not uncommon for this type of behavior to end up being harmless. But we don’t know enough about this guy to determine anything yet, so we need to put some precautions in place.”
“You think he’s going to follow me here?”
I can hear the fear in her voice, and it strikes me hard in the gut.
“I don’t believe his primary motivation is to hurt you. I think it’s to frighten you,” Paw says. “The Polaroids are a perfect example of that.”