Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
To stop me from being able to even get air in my lungs so that they burn for the same reprieve the rest of me is.
With my eyes screwed tightly shut, I rock into the furious feasting while kicking my heels in a wordless encouragement to keep going. To go faster. Slower. To keep the same speed. To do anything or everything as long as it’s something versus the nothing I was getting before. I yank his hair to the same rhythm that I’m releasing crazed moans and wildly bang my head against the floor, simultaneously hoping he moves his efforts lower and stays exactly where he is.
All of a sudden, Slater lazily leads his tongue lower.
Glides the muscle deep inside.
Sluggishly twists and turns it.
Turns it and spins.
Spins and spins and slips his mouth completely away without giving me the climax I’m already painstakingly close to.
Vocalizing my unhappiness with his choice is cut short courtesy of cold, thick cream being spread the entire length of my pussy. There isn’t time to contemplate if I should gasp or object or praise him for adding it to the mix before his entire face is buried in the mixture. An unrelenting oscillation of slow, savage strokes and fast, ferocious licks light every bone in my body on fire, overcooking each one, until I’m burnt.
Breaking apart.
Crumbling and coming on his tongue as it ferally fucks me into another mess that joins the ones already on the floor.
Unlike those, I hope our relationship isn’t so easy to clean up, because honestly?
I love it like this.
And the last thing I would ever want is for it to get washed away.
Chapter 15
Slater
She’s beautiful.
So fucking beautiful.
And brilliant.
Good God almighty is she brilliant. I mean I get gobsmacked every time we start talking about salaries in our favorite sport and she busts out with shit about projected total cap hits, projected end of season cap space, how they’re calculated, and how certain analyzing equations could be used to have teams make better trades. All that shit sounds like a foreign language to me, hell, foreign languages are easier for me to understand than any of that shit, yet both seem to come naturally to her. She’s somehow managed to pick up on the few French phrases she overheard me speaking like it was nothing.
As if she had been born in France and spoke it her entire life.
She’s also give you a toothache sweet.
For the past six days, before the sun is up, she’s snuck out of bed – or at least she thinks she’s sneaking – gone to the kitchen, made me a cup of regular coffee – no butter but a dollop of her homemade whip cream – and brought it to me.
Here.
She places it on the bedside table.
Kisses my cheek.
Uses her nose to nuzzle mine like I’m not already wide awake and whispers good morning.
It’s her way of trying to take care of me.
And it doesn’t stop there.
She makes sure to have me a post run smoothie blended and ready to be drunk the second I walk through the door.
She orders me the next book in a series I’m reading when there’s about four chapters left so that I can just continue on when I’m ready.
She even massages silicone gel on old scars in an attempt to help them fade.
Not because she hates the marks, but because she wants me to know she respects them.
Where they came from.
What caused them.
How I put my life on the line again and again.
It’s a wordless act of appreciation.
Arlette Carmichael is more than any one man deserves to have in his life.
Which is all the more reason to do whatever it takes to be the one that gets to keep her.
Rather than wait for her to finish her trek over to me, I prematurely open my eyes and tease, “Pretty sure your mornin’ stompin’ is why my downstairs neighbors think I’m housin’ a sanctuary for squirrels.”
Arley’s jaw hits the ground at the same time she pauses so that her coffee free hand can plop onto her hip. “Excuse me?!”
“You’ve got squirrel feet, Angel Cake.” Warm laughs leave me as I drag myself up to a sitting position. “Question is, are the stomps to warn off others from comin’ near our territory or to tell others I’m a taken man?”
“Well, taken man, you just talked yourself out of a morning blowjob.” She sassily announces and resumes her stroll over to me.
More chuckles leave us both, yet the instant she slightly leans forward to put the mug down I smoothly angle myself to the side to capture her lips. Sweet hums are swiftly met by my mouth eagerly looking to devour the sound, fueled by it much more than the dark brew that’s waiting for me in the cup. One simple tug of my old t-shirt she slept in prompts Arley to crawl into my lap, and once she’s there, my arms circle her figure while my tongue does the same around hers. Around and around and around it languorously rolls, luring the love of my life into widening her thighs. Hooking her arms around my neck. Lightly rocking against my rising cock that’s being covered by just the sheet.