Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92136 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92136 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
The pressure of his fingers at the back of my neck. The warmth of his mouth closing over mine. That first shocking stroke of his tongue between my lips, the barest hint of chocolate flavoring the kiss.
And then…
I opened my eyes and leaned forward on the vanity, lifting my chin and staring at my neck.
His mouth moving down my throat. His hands in my hair. The heat coming off his body as he’d loomed over me, tall and strong and masculine.
And then…
His fingers beneath my thighs. My body being lifted. My legs twining around him.
I set my toothbrush down and put a hand over my stomach, which was flipping wildly.
His weight on me.
His hands beneath my shirt.
His mouth on my breasts.
His tongue on my—
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.
Nothing had ever felt so good in my entire life. Where the hell did he learn all those tricks? Why didn’t other guys I’d been with know them? How was it possible I’d never been with anybody who knew how to make me come like that, like my entire body was being gloriously ripped apart at the seams?
I clapped both hands over my lips, remembering how loud I’d been. Color seeped into my face. How embarrassing! He was probably used to women who were way more sultry and sophisticated during sex. Women who moaned and purred instead of screaming like a teenage girl on the Dragster at Cedar Point.
Then again, he hadn’t seemed to mind. I remembered the feel of his cock through his jeans when he’d lain on top of me, thick and long and hard. He’d been as turned on as I was. For a moment, I let myself wonder what would have happened if Paisley hadn’t woken up. Would we have gone further? Would we have gone all the way?
My stomach whooshed. My pelvic muscles clenched. My breath stopped.
Stop. Stop it right there. It would have been a huge mistake. You guys are friends, and nothing ruins a friendship like sex.
Forcing the thought of sex with Nate from my mind, I finished my teeth, washed my face, took my birth control pill, and switched off the light. Crawling beneath the covers, I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling. Suddenly I wasn’t the least bit sleepy. My whole body was tingling. I wondered if Nate was still up. I wondered what he was thinking. I wondered if things would be awkward between us tomorrow and hoped they wouldn’t be. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to sleep.
But automatically, my mind wandered back to that moment Nate’s hands froze as he unzipped his pants. Here, alone in my bed, I let him keep going. Let him shove down his jeans. Let him slide inside me and begin to move.
Then I stopped—what would it be like to have sex with Nate Pearson? Was he gentle or rough? Was he quiet or loud? Did he close his eyes, mutter incoherent curse words, and use his dick like a hammer, like a lot of guys did, making sex feel strangely impersonal, like it was something being done to you and not with you? Or did he look at you, use his whole body, talk to you, make you feel connected to him, share the dizzying climb and the rapturous fall?
Sighing, I opened my eyes again.
Probably I was idealizing him. Idealizing sex, even. I always wanted it to be something more than it was. I always wanted it to mean more than it did. In my head, I could still hear him call me a little girl in a fantasy world, even if he’d tried to say otherwise earlier tonight. But it seemed to me if you let someone into your body, if you let him see you and hear you and touch you at your most uninhibited and vulnerable, it was only natural to feel something in your heart for that person you didn’t feel for anyone else. It shouldn’t be something you did on a whim with someone who had no interest in your heart whatsoever. If that was childish of me to believe, so be it.
It was a good thing we’d stopped.
Sunday morning I woke up around nine, and I felt so energized that I decided to get in some exercise before meeting my sisters for our standing eleven o’clock Sunday brunch date. Since a peek out the window told me it was pouring rain, I decided against a walk or jog, threw on a sports bra and some leggings, and dug out the yoga mat Maren had given me for Christmas. It had been at the back of my closet and had some pretty good-sized dust bunnies clinging to it, but I cleaned it off and spread it out on my bedroom floor.
Once I was sitting on it, however, I realized I actually didn’t know any yoga on my own. Wasn’t there something called a downward dog? Or was it a warrior dog? Maybe a downward child? I guessed my way through a few haphazard poses, then gave up and did some old-fashioned jumping jacks, squats, push-ups (albeit from my knees), and crunches. For good measure, I did a few side stretches and runner’s lunges before hitting the shower, congratulating myself on a well-rounded workout.