Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 656(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 656(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Riley sits awkwardly on the sofa, smoothing the shirt over her ass before she perches on the edge. Bless her for not wanting to leave her snail trail on the furniture.
“I’m usually like you,” I say, shifting in the chair and pinching my eyes closed to keep out the residual light from the corner lamp. “Could you turn that light off? I think I’ll do better in total darkness.”
Riley rises again, leaving her clothes on the couch. As she bends to find the switch for the lamp, I get a delicious view of her thighs and just a hint of rounded ass cheek that thickens my cock nicely. Not that I can do anything about it, but it’s reassuring to know the blow to my head didn’t fuck up my dick.
She returns to the same spot. When I don’t continue, she asks. “...like me?”
“Oh, yes. When I’m home, I like to go commando. Nothing like getting a little air to the important parts.”
Even in the dark, I can sense the flush that heats her cheeks.
“Did Hayes get you off before Shawn interrupted?”
“That’s none of your business, Jacob.”
Her tone is patient and flat, nothing like the sparky Riley that retaliated in The Red Devil. She’s pitying my current state, which I hate. I don’t want her sympathy. I want the spark and the fight. I want the challenge that I don’t often find in a woman.
“You seem relaxed,” I say. “If Hayes left you wanting, you’d be more on edge. Antsy.”
“You should go to sleep.”
Shuffling back, she reaches into the crumpled jeans to find her phone, then taps out a message with her bottom lip gripped between her teeth. She’s telling someone she’s not coming home tonight because she’s staying with me.
Why does that make me inordinately happy?
“Who are you messaging?” I ask.
“My dad.” She continues tapping on the phone. “And I’m setting some alarms so I can wake you.”
When Riley’s done with that task, she lowers her phone to the couch. “Is there a bathroom downstairs so I can get dressed?”
“Yes,” I say. “But I don’t think you should leave me, just in case.”
She snorts but hesitates, imagining finding me unconscious, fitting, or worse. I’m an evil asshole for filling her with uncertainty and fear. I accept it. “I’ll keep my eyes shut while you dress here.”
“Of course you will,” she says. Through the slightest crack in my lid, I watch her roll her eyes, but she takes her underwear from the pile and pulls it up her thighs, wriggling them under the shirt and into place. There shouldn’t be anything sexy about the way she does it, all rushed and practical, but my dick goes from a semi to an iron bar in seconds. If I ran my finger over that underwear, I bet it’d be damp.
Her jeans are next, tugged on, zipped, and buttoned without me glimpsing anything noteworthy. Her bra and top are the last items, but I guess she must decide against stripping off Hayes’ shirt. Maybe, when I’m sleeping, she’ll finish the job. Until then, I get to appreciate the view of her untethered tits, full and heavy, with the bumps of tight nipples beneath the thin fabric. I could jerk off over nothing but that image and reach the sweetest release, imagining cupping all her warm softness. Even better, gripping her breasts around my dick so I can shoot my load over her throat. The urge to adjust my junk is real, but I resist.
“So, what brings you into the lion’s den?” I ask.
“Hayes.” Her reply is soft and simple, and my fingers flex at my sides in response.
“At least one of us managed to overcome all that frost.”
“Not frost.” She sighs, sounding like a ninety-five-year-old who’s just collapsed into a chair after an hour of exertion. “Do you ever turn down the assholery, Jacob? Don’t you ever get tired?”
My throat makes an audible click as I swallow reflexively, taken off guard by her question. I do get tired. So damned tired. Holding everything at arm’s length is exhausting. Keeping up a shield so I can protect all the pathetic and weak parts of myself is a full-time job.
“Women love an asshole.”
“Some women.”
“And what about you, Riley? You don’t get turned on by a hate-fuck. All that frantic shoving, biting, sweating, clawing makes sex so much hotter, don’t you think?”
I watch her freeze at the question, and my mind begins to spin over the why? Every other question I’ve asked her has been met with a quick-witted or hard response, but this? She looks like a deer in headlights.
“You have had sex, haven’t you?”
“What I do in my private life is none of your business.”
There she is. Riley’s back, but her answer gives nothing away, and it suddenly strikes me that she might be a virgin.