Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“Mila.” He makes a warning of my name, and I just about melt. “Spit it out.”
“I don’t come,” I whisper as my face flames. “Not very often.” I give a tiny apologetic shrug that he can no doubt feel. “I probably should’ve mentioned that before. Not that it wasn’t a good orgasm . . .” My words trail off when he presses me back to better see my face. Which is probably puce because—how mortifyingly uncomfortable.
“You don’t come.” A statement, not a question.
I shake my head. “Not easily. Open your ears, for God’s sake, Fin! Stop trying to em—”
“You don’t remember how many times you came on our wedding night?”
“Don’t tell me,” I retort tartly. “Dozens? And don’t expect me to believe it either.” My mouth tightens, and his expression changes too. Only he looks like I just reached out and tickled him. Rather than the other way around. Though the brush of his still-hard cock isn’t exactly a tickle. It also doesn’t make me want to giggle. Which brings me to my point. “It’s just, with Adam, I’d usually—”
His happy expression dissolves. He suddenly swoops, and I find myself hauled unceremoniously over his shoulder.
“Oh!” My stomach flips with surprise. And pleasure. Not that I’d admit it in a thousand years. And never to him—I’d never hear the end of it!
“Don’t tell me what Adam did,” he grates out as he turns and carries me through the garden.
“Not much, actually. I meant more what I’d do for him.” I swipe my damp, dangling hair out of my face and use my other arm to try and support the girls, before my body stiffens. “Hey!” I shout—yelp—as his hand swats my bottom.
“I said don’t tell me.”
“I was trying to suggest I might reciprocate!”
“That’s very decent of you.” His amused drawl still makes me feel hot all over, and my bum cheek tingles, not unpleasantly.
“I don’t feel like it now.” My words come out snipey from embarrassment.
“The stone would be too hard on your knees, anyway.”
“Oh.” The fire drops out of me. But what kind of man doesn’t want a blow job?
“And I plan on taking my time with you,” he adds, his tone annoyingly conversational for someone walking through a garden stark naked with a woman draped over his shoulder like a side of beef.
His feet stop quite suddenly, and my damp hair swings in my face.
“Pfft!” I swipe at it. “What is it?” I ask, trying—and failing—to see around him and not enjoying how my boobs peel from his skin.
His answer is to stroke up and over my backside, the caress soft yet possessive. With just a hint of a squeeze.
“What—ouch!” My right bum cheek immediately stings.
“Keep still,” Fin reprimands as his hand strokes, elevating the sting to a tingle. “I caught a glimpse of your reflection. I had to pause to appreciate it. My wife’s ass is like a work of art.”
“Like a bag of laundry, more like.” The words leave my mouth without thought. Fin’s hand comes down again, sharp and swift.
“Cut that shit out,” he growls. “You don’t get to insult my little slut muffin.”
“Your slut muffin?” I ridiculously repeat. Though I appreciated his “little” prefix, my bum wobbled, and I should not be fine with that. But his growling reprimand and the throbbing between my legs seems to drown my indignity out.
“Mine for the next five days. That’s what we agreed. And don’t tell me you don’t like it,” he adds as his fingers tease . . . where they have no business teasing, sliding along the crease where my thigh and bottom meet.
“Of course I don’t like it,” I whisper.
“Oh, shame.” His voice is so soft as those teasing fingers slide between my legs.
I say his name on a gasp, wriggling as though I want to get away. But I don’t want to get away, just as I don’t want to acknowledge how I’ve eased his access. I screw my eyes tight against the pleasure of finding Fin’s finger inside me.
“Such a shame you don’t like it, Mila. Right? Such a shame you don’t like me fucking you with my fingers.”
I shake my head, liar that I am, my trailing hair swinging this way and that. In my head, I see the image of us so clearly. The reflection of Fin’s expression as he adds another finger, twisting his wrist to stroke me intimately. I pant and I squirm with a mixture of indignity and hedonistic pleasure as heat reddens my skin.
But the moment is over as quickly as it began, and I stifle a moan as he slides his hand away.
“Fuck. Look at that. You’re so sweet and sticky between my fingers, Mila.”
How can something that sounds so conversational make my insides ache and flame? But then we’re on the move again.
“This is so undignified,” I whisper, sticking to my unimpressed theme as I stare down at his sculpted butt cheeks. I wonder how many squats he does to keep them in shape.