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)
“That feels so good,” she moans as I continue sucking on her, her hands now tugging at my hair.
“I’m going to make you feel even better.”
I’ve been waiting days to see her. Have told those closest to me about her. Go to bed thinking about her and wake up wondering what she’s doing.
I’m not letting the chance to seduce her go to waste. Once she knows my secret—who I really am—I’m not sure how she will react or which way the wind will blow.
And speaking of blowing . . .
I stop sucking on her tits, my fingers moving to trace delicate patterns on her skin, round and round on her stomach, this dance of anticipation echoing the rhythm of my beating heart. It’s practically beating out of my chest at the sight of her curves. They’re pliant and warm, and when she arches her back, they’re begging me to explore them.
My hand moves up her sternum slowly, committing everything about her naked body to memory, seeing it in daylight for the first time. Her hair is down, and I revel in the silky texture of it beneath my fingertips.
Desire pulses through my veins.
I could have simply gone to the gym to quell the adrenaline—or run five miles—but what would be the fun in that? Until I met Harlow, I didn’t realize how good it could be with a woman when strong feelings were involved, lying next to her, having her gaze over at me and me at her. Naked. Sated.
Happy.
Harlow watches me.
With deliberate leisure, I trace a path down along her rib cage, to the curve of her hip, fingertips featherlight against her skin.
She squirms.
“You like that?”
In true Harlow style, she rolls her eyes as if my question were ridiculous. “Obviously, I like that” her eye roll says.
“Yes. And if you even think about stopping, you’re a dead man,” she warns, trying to put the fear of God into me.
“Tell me how you really feel about it.” I laugh, bending so I can put my mouth on her stomach, kissing above her belly button.
“This is seriously killing me.” Her voice is low. “I haven’t wanted to use my vibrator at all the past few days. It’s just not the same.”
“So what I hear you saying is that I came at the right time?”
She lets out a strangled laugh when I put my hand between her legs and stroke her inner thigh. “Stop using words like come and came. All it’s doing is making foreplay take longer.”
“I’ll consider that a compliment.” I chuckle. It’s a strained laugh, and I feel Sex Face rapidly changing my expression from one of ease to one of pain—the good kind of pain. The kind of pain that says “My dick is hard and ready for some good, good lovin’ and strokin’.”
Harlow bites her lower lip.
“I don’t want . . .” She hesitates. “Can’t we just do it? I don’t want to lie here for twenty minutes fooling around.”
Say what now?
I laugh again, leaning down to nuzzle her neck.
“You’re annoyed because you don’t want foreplay, you want to skip to the sex? I’ve never heard a woman say that before.”
“Why are you still wearing clothes?” she grumbles, bottom lip jutting out. “I can’t be the only one lying here naked—it’s not fair.”
“Life isn’t fair.” But I agree—she shouldn’t be the only one lying here naked—going up on my haunches so I can pull the hoodie up and over my head, adding it to the pile of her clothes beside the bed.
Harlow watches me intensely.
Smoldering.
“Is your mouth watering?” I tease, because it most certainly looks like it is.
“Yes.” Her eyes sparkle, looking my body up and down, gaze hungry.
She meets my watchful gaze without flinching, a mischievous smile playing on her lips.
“You are really something else, do you know that?”
“What do you mean?” Her hand is moving up and down her stomach, taunting me.
I move closer still.
“You’re not afraid of me at all, are you?”
“Why would I be afraid of you?” She scoffs. As if.
I give my head a little shake. “I meant, you’re not even intimidated.”
Lots of women have been intimidated by me in the past—not because I’m mean or aggressive. Mostly I think it has more to do with the pro-football factor than anything; they don’t see me as a normal man. They see me as superhuman, larger than life, and someone they have to work tirelessly to impress to keep my interest.
Harlow doesn’t look at me like I’m larger than life; when she looks at me . . . it’s as if she sees a man she considers a friend. A man she considers funny. Smart. Attractive.
And she has no idea who I am, though she will soon enough.
I’m going to tell her before I leave, I swear.
“I’m not intimidated by you either.” She pauses, her hand rising to stroke my chest, across my pecs, fingers plucking at one of my nipples. “Why are your pants still on? Take those off.”