Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 38202 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 191(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38202 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 191(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
I know you’re staring at me, that cocky look in his pretty blues is saying—-
I take a quick gulp of coffee as I feel my pulse actually start to stupidly, inexplicably race.
Close the page now, Reed!
Close it!
But I can’t even tear my gaze off the page.
Mr. Rochester’s powerfully muscular body is almost completely naked in the photo, with only his crotch covered by a rumpled silk sheet. If that isn’t bad enough, the sheet is so thin the shape of his cock makes a rather prominent impression—-
Shit.
I down the rest of my coffee, but it’s no use, and my throat continues to feel dry. I may be a virgin, but I’ve watched enough sex scenes in my life to know the difference between small and big weenies—-
Well, let’s just say that Mr. Rochester’s is not small. Instead, it’s—-
It’s—-
It’s so...so...monstrously—-
Heat suffuses my cheeks, and I mentally catch myself in time. Why the hell am I thinking about my boss’ cock? And did I really just use the word monstrous to describe—-
I shake my head hard, literally, but it’s too late. My thoughts have once again gone off tangent, and now there’s no stopping it.
Now, all I can imagine is Mr. Rochester – my boss – and he’s not just naked.
It’s worse than that.
Right now, I can only imagine Mr. Rochester lying over me, naked, mocking blue eyes devouring my body—-
“I’m going to fuck you bloody hard now, Ms. Reed.”
My mind has no trouble imagining the sound of his voice either: it’s very much British and – yes, cultured, and when used to say dirty words the combination is devastating.
A moan of embarrassment tries to rush out of my throat as my body clenches with unexpected need.
Oh, to be fucked so bloody hard!
I close my eyes and cover my face, but it’s no use.
I can’t stop fantasizing about him—-
Oh, Mr. Rochester!
Imagining how he’d shove his monstrous cock inside of me, tearing me apart—-
I feel something ooze out of my folds, soaking my panties, and I jerk. My hands fall away as I gaze down at myself in horror.
Am I...wet?
As soon as the word forms in my mind, I realize I am, extremely so, and the knowledge has my legs automatically pressing together.
Oh my God!
But still the wetness continues to ooze out of me, hot, sticky, and uncontrollable.
This is stupid. Insane. Impossible.
And yet—-
My mind is stubborn, and it’s STILL fantasizing about Mr. Rochester fucking me, with his bloody hard cock—-
His impossibly, monstrously-—
Stop imagining things, Reed!
My fingers tighten and loosen reflexively around the handle of my empty mug as I struggle to control my arousal. Just one stupid photo, I lament to myself, and now I’m horny as hell.
It doesn’t even make sense.
I hadn’t lied to Ms. Fairfax when I told her I’ve been attracted to bad boys. They’ve just never been my type. Never. Other girls no doubt see them differently, but I’ve always thought them shallow and selfish, and more often than not cruel and stupid.
So why is Mr. Rochester making me feel this way – when he’s virtually the king of bad boys?
Only one answer comes to me, and the mere thought of it has me squirming, not out of discomfort...but of arousal.
I’ve never thought I could be this way, but the moist heat still making my insides churn and my pussy ache tells me that what I’m suspecting is embarrassingly true.
Monstrous cocks are my weakness.
It’s my fetish, my—-
Shit.
A sound has reached my ears, cutting my thoughts off, and I tense and strain my ears—-
Shit.
I still hear it, which means I haven’t imagined the sound of a knob turning.
The realization has me automatically reaching for my empty mug like it’s a weapon for self-defense. It’s no pepper spray, but right now anything is better than nothing.
Penthouse access is so strict that entry to it after office hours requires at least 24 hours’ notice. And since I’m the one who grants such access as Mr. Rochester’s PA—-
My heartbeat speeds up, and my grip on the mug tightens.
Whoever’s coming in isn’t supposed to be here, I think grimly.
I hear the main doors of the penthouse office start to open.
Shit, shit, shit.
I tiptoe behind the door, knowing that it’s too late to switch off the light in the kitchen and hide in the darkness.
What if it’s a ghost?
What if it’s an intruder?
Ah dammit, I’m not even sure which is better, all I know is—-
The sound of footsteps reaches my ears.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
And the sound is coming louder, the footsteps nearer—-
Intruders can be hurt, but not ghosts...right?
Even so, it doesn’t hurt to try.
Taking a deep breath, I raise the mug over my head as I bide my time, waiting, waiting—-
The kitchen door opens, and whoever – whatever – it is casts a shadow on the ground.
Oh God.
Someone—-
Something—-
Enters—-
I swing hard.
Stunned blue eyes clash with mine, and I pale, gasping, “Mr. Rochester?”