Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Condom, condom, I rack my brain. Wallet, next to my room key . . . wallet, next to my room key . . . wallet, next to my room key.
Breathing out a sigh, I manage to get Harlow’s shirt over her head, then go to my knees so I can remove mine, tossing them both to the hotel-room floor, where they land in a heap.
Softly, I murmur, “Trust me?”
Her response is a quiet affirmation, a whispered consent that hangs in the air.
I feel her nod against the pillow before dragging down the waistband of her sleep shorts—or whatever those gym shorts are, if you can call them that—the threadbare fabric easing down her hips.
They join our T-shirts somewhere on the floor.
I’m one of those guys who gets off on going down on a woman—I know, I know, can you believe it? It’s true.
I’m a giver.
In the world where men are considered selfish in bed and refuse to get down between a woman’s legs, I am a man who prides himself on, well, getting down between a woman’s legs. I could do that shit all day long. I ease down her body, kissing along the way, wanting to get right to it, the idea literally making my mouth water.
Her breath hitches in anticipation; the motion of spreading her has her already gripping the bedsheets.
She smells good everywhere, and I’m ready to lap her up.
Honestly? I’ve kind of wanted to all day long. Our sightseeing gave me barely enough to whet my appetite for her, this simple midwestern girl so very much like me it’s ridiculous, despite my fame.
That we do not have in common.
Not even a little.
She has no idea who’s going downtown on her right now. My dirty secret warms my belly at the same time it hardens my dick.
Back to the task.
Tasting her.
I use my hands to spread her thighs wider, my large palms caressing her bare inner thighs before my thumbs stroke over her folds, one of them going around and around in circles on that nub in the center.
Above me, Harlow lets out yet another moan. A loud moan, one of pleasure, that spurs me on. One that the people in the next room can probably hear.
So hot.
I give her a lick to see how she reacts, and Harlow does not disappoint, her fingers plowing into my hair, nails scratching my scalp gently.
Grr.
The minx likes everything I’m doing to her.
A whole fucking lot.
She’s getting off as much as I am, and in about five minutes—or sooner, if I’m doing my job right—she’ll be coming all over my tongue. My face.
I suck.
Suck some more.
“Oh shit . . .” She moans. “Oh God.”
I feel like one—a goddamn god.
Yup, that’s me.
Chapter 9
Harlow
Holy shit holy shit holy shit . . .
Focus, Harlow.
Oh my God.
Oh my God his mouth feels so good—how is he doing that?
What is he doing with his tongue?
Holy s-s-s-hit.
My hands grip the bedspread, legs spread while Andy has his mouth on me. He hums. Licks. Sucks. Does whatever he’s doing that is making my knees shake and legs quake and—
“Oh . . . oh . . .” I can barely get the words out, the tingling in my lower half racking me, but I’d rather have him inside me—it’s been so long! Not that I want my mind to drift, but I can’t remember the last time a guy has gone down on me, let alone had his dick in my vagina.
I moan, trying not to thrash my head on the pillow because that would be so cliché, but it’s impossible not to.
I toss my head.
Bite my bottom lip.
Moan again, desperate not to come but also on the verge.
Yes . . .
No.
Don’t come . . . make it last . . . tell him to slide inside you . . .
Don’t come, don’t do it . . .
“Oh shit . . . ,” I curse, every part of my pussy and legs trembling. If Andy weren’t holding my legs apart, I swear they would be a wobbly mess.
I want him totally naked.
I want to see all of him, not just feel him on my body.
But when I nudge his shoulders, giving him a push, he shakes his head. As if he knows what I’m about and knows what I want, how I like it, but won’t give in to my pouting.
He’s determined to make me come, and he wants it to be in his mouth.
Ugh.
I thrash my head, frustrated.
It feels so good I’m on the verge of saying his name out loud—not shouting it—to let him know I appreciate it.
God, I appreciate him so much . . .
If the lights were on in this room, I would watch him in action—the sight of a man’s head between my legs is always so hypnotic. Instead, I picture what it might look like. The dark hair. His nose pressed against my core.