Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 88895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
To the point it spills over onto my jeans.
Goddamn, I want that shit too.
“Make a mess for me, Slayer,” mindlessly seeps through my gritted teeth, adding more steam to the thick humid filled air. “Come all over me.”
“Fuckkkkkk,” she choppily huffs against the skin her teeth have branded her presence into. “I’m…I’m…”
My girlfriend abruptly squeaks.
Shakes.
Squeaks again.
Begins screaming and coming on my cock in such a rapid succession that there’s no way to stop my own searing surges from shooting deep inside as I praise the carnal combination of actions, “You’re such a fucking beauty when you come for me, Arden.” Throatily saying her name simply inspires her to howl mine. “Such a fucking beauty when you’re all mine…” I wolfishly brush my lips against the shell of her ear. “And only mine…”
Chapter 16
Arden
Big NYE dub for the boys.
Another typical loss for me.
Not that I actually expected anything different.
I’m not the social princess that my wombmate is.
I don’t rent out a downtown lounge for two hundred of my closest SnapWhore followers to listen to Cooper Copeland play songs I’ve handpicked or rent a superyacht off the coast of South Haven for seventy of my closest IG clones to play strip disco with Olympians that used to row or play Rugby or whatever sport is dubbed “it” for the season by the trendsetters.
Bringing in a New Year’s Day birthday with a big NYE bash isn’t my style.
Even when we were kids.
She’d basically host a miniature version of the party our parents were throwing for all the kids of the socialites who were there while I basically did what I’m currently doing, which is shoveling chocolate mousse into my mouth, ignoring the faint ringing from my tinnitus, and watching a King Arthur adaptation.
As an adult, I’ve grown quite addicted to the Legend of the Sword.
I mean…come on.
It’s Charlie fucking Hunnam.
Who doesn’t love a gorgeous blond accented man?!
Discontentment that I can’t be with mine tonight due to the team’s rooftop bash the boys are expected to attend pushes to me stuff another bite inside to assist in keeping the emotion buried deep down.
Deep, deep down.
Like it’s not as though it’s not currently buried.
It’s just not, not buried.
Bear flops his face onto my thigh and releases a giant huff of unhappiness.
“Look, bud, I know,” I grumble around the spoon in my mouth, “but there’s not shit I can do about the fireworks.”
He snuffs again to clarify his point.
“Or about Tanner not texting because he has to party it up on some downtown rooftop with skate sluts…” aggressively stabbing the spoon into the bowl is mindlessly done, “that probably have their tits hanging out,” I jab at the treat a second time, “and are offering to give him a blowie in the back,” another violent poke is delivered, “or let him London Bridge them in their room or limo or back alley…”
Fuckme, I hate this whole no fraternization shit.
I get it.
Boys in the past have fucked up.
Scandals the team didn’t need.
Scandals the team couldn’t afford.
Scandals the league shouldn’t have had to bury.
But what’s the big fucking deal when it’s not just a fling?
When the player and the PR broadskie are…more than that?
I’m not saying we’re in love, but I’m not, not saying it, either.
Fuck, what am I saying?
The mouthful I’ve been carving finally soars towards my lips only to abruptly be halted midflight courtesy of the doorbell.
Huh.
Who the hell could that be?
Bear’s immediate leap off the couch along with barking leads to me scrambling in that direction and following behind him to see who the visitor is.
Because it’s not an attacker.
Attackers don’t ring the doorbell.
Not unless you’re in that one movie with the mask people.
Can’t quite remember it.
Horror movies were Layvon’s thing, not mine.
But…now that I’m looking back…dating him…was kind of like living in a low budget horror movie.
Peeking through the peephole reveals to me a sight that instantly has me commanding, “Banco.”
Bear ceases barking, parks his ass on the floor, and sets his large paws in front of him, maintaining a just in case defensive stance.
I open the door to Joey Alexeyev, Cap’s light café brown skinned, curvy, curly haired, pregnant wife, only for her to instantaneously say, “I have to pee.”
It’s impossible not to snicker at the announcement, “Did you drive all the way over here just to see my bathroom?”
Her freckled covered nose scrunches in amusement. “I actually drove all the way out here to do my job but forgot to pee before I left downtown, which was a terrible mistake, and then got stuck in Santa must’ve crashed his sleigh traffic, which then only made having to pee so much worse, and then I took like four detour turns because people around here are just begging for a spot on next year’s naughty list, which brings me back to my blunt – albeit even rude – greeting.” She shoves the bag in her possession towards me. “Bathroom?”