Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Beautiful and untamed, he moves powerfully above me. We hold gazes as he moves, his hand on my ankle as he keeps my leg open around his hips. He manages to hit me at my exact G-spot. Nobody’s ever fucked me like he does.
I groan and sink my nails into his muscular shoulders, leaving claw marks and not minding that I do. I want to leave a mark. I want him to know that he’s mine now.
He looks at my bouncing breasts, my reddened breasts, groaning low when I stroke my fingers along his muscular ass.
I’m so wet he slides easily in, but I feel completely stretched and out of my mind with need for him every time he fills me to the brim. I undulate my body, clutching him for more.
“Gorgeous. You’re gorgeous, Sara. I fucking love fucking you. I fucking love being with you. In you.” Watching me through openly hot eyes, Ian reaches out and flicks the pad of his thumb across my clit.
I scream as I orgasm.
It takes me like a crashing wave, drowning me.
I don’t breathe the whole time the shudders take me. Ian pins me down by the hips and keeps pumping into me, watching me twist and turn and gasp. Then he reaches that edge, and I watch the flash in his eyes as he climbs over it.
And in that moment, he grabs my face to kiss me. He kisses me hard and passionately, like he wants me to be the one who receives everything that he’s unleashing as he comes.
I curl into him, the aftershocks running all over me. I feel amazing, our bodies loose, sweat coating Ian’s chest and mine.
He throws his head back and sighs contentedly as he stares at the ceiling, his hand coming to stroke the back of my head.
“Hmmm,” I say, smiling against his chest.
I peer up at him and notice he’s got his eyes closed, a half smile tugging at his lips.
“That was nice,” I say.
“Nice doesn’t cover it.” He opens his eyes and strokes his fingers along my jaw. “Let’s get something to eat and get our strengths up so we can do it again.” He pecks my lips, and I groan as if I don’t want exactly that to happen. “Okay, but you cook us something.”
He pats my ass. “Nah, that’s what we’ve got Uber Eats for.”
PAPERS
Sara
Ian, Ian, Ian, my heart seems to beat as I step out of work and into the Brooklyn streets, ready to head back home.
It’s been a whirlwind two weeks, and I can’t get enough of him.
I’m standing outside, debating whether to take the train or grab a cab, when a piece of the New York Times flies by and sticks to my feet. I try to kick it off, but the air is pressing it around my ankle. I grab it, dust off my fingers, and read:
Audition for upcoming Broadway musical…
Suddenly the wind whips the paper from my fingers. I run after it and grab the paper back to me, then reread it and scan for the location. The name of the producer is one of the newer production companies—ALA Inc. And I wonder how big the company is, and what their budget will be.
Does that matter, Sara? It’s a possible part!
What can it hurt? I already have a stable income as Bryn’s PA, but I’m ready to work for what I want. I promised myself after I lost my job as a concierge that I wouldn’t give up this easily. I can’t reasonably expect every audition to get me a gig, but all I need is one. One opportunity to show them what I’ve got, and this could be it.
As I take the stairs underground to the subway station, I’m starting to bring up the Safari browser on my phone and mark down the audition date when my mom calls.
“Momma.”
She’s crying.
“Mom, what’s wrong?”
“I got the papers,” she whispers.
And my heart breaks. I blink back tears, trying to hide them with my hair.
“Oh, Sara,” she says when she hears my sobs.
I can’t respond. My dad doesn’t love my mom anymore. So many times he would kiss her in front of me. So many times he’d tell me, “I love your mother.” And so what does that mean? That he never loved her? Or that love goes away?
“He’s already signed,” she explains. “But I can’t sign them.”
I clear my throat and look around for an exit out of the train station. “You can. I’ll be here with you on the phone.”
I head upstairs and I try to find a quiet spot to talk to her, aware of the silence on the other end. I drop down onto a bench, encouraging her. “I’m here, Mom. I will never leave you,” I promise.
A silent beat. And then, “I signed. It’s over.”
The words “it’s over” resound in me like a final bell. I burst out crying. She’s crying too.