Total pages in book: 188
Estimated words: 179812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 899(@200wpm)___ 719(@250wpm)___ 599(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 179812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 899(@200wpm)___ 719(@250wpm)___ 599(@300wpm)
It takes quite a while for us to break our kiss and for my hot and flushed, still-orgasmic body, to calm down. When I’m not still trembling or jerking at odd intervals, he untangles our mouths and moves slightly up. Slowly, I open my eyes and look at him. For the first time since he started eating me out. I wonder if I look the same, like he does. All mussed-up hair and pupils blown wide. Flushed cheeks and wet, swollen lips.
His strokes his thumb down my cheek and whispers, “Welcome back.”
I lick my swollen, sore lips. “Did I… pass out?”
His eyes go liquid as he shakes his head. “Close.”
I blink and remember something, the most important thing. “Your knees…”
“Are fine,” he says softly but sternly.
“But—”
“Let’s worry more about you.”
And I want to shake him for doing that, for always putting me first. But first, I don’t think I have the strength. I’m barely able to fist his t-shirt; and second, I don’t want to argue with him right now. I hated being away from him for the last two days, and while I know he’s appeared out of nowhere—and we’ll talk about him flying over from New Orleans—I’m sure he needs to leave soon, because he’s due in Florida sometime tomorrow for his next game.
So all I do is grumble, “It’s your fault.”
“Yeah,” he says, but doesn’t look very sorry.
“That was intense.”
“That was the most magnificent thing I’ve ever seen.”
I blush, my channel pulsing with the memory of what he made me do. “I didn’t know I could do that.”
He rubs his thumb over my blush. “Thank fuck, you can.”
“Why?”
His eyes have a twinkle in them that I can only call devilish as he rasps, “Now every time I need a drink, all I gotta do is get down on my knees and French kiss your pussy so fucking hard that she pops like sparkly champagne.” He places a soft kiss on my gasping mouth. “Sparkly, strawberry champagne.”
I manage to shoot him a glare. “Just so you know, I still don’t think I taste like strawberries.”
His lips twitch as he places another soft kiss on my lips. “And I still think you do.”
Before I can do or say anything else, he pushes himself up and off my body and hops off the bed. I come up on my elbows to watch him as he snags the back of his t-shirt and pulls it off his body without any fanfare. His long-ish messy hair falls on his forehead and curls even more at the ends as he drops the shirt on the floor without a care or thought. Which I know is unlike him.
I make a mental note to pick up his shirt and put it in the laundry, because he doesn’t like messes. I also make a mental note to presoak his jeans because they’re bloody. Yes, he cut himself on the glass, and I don’t even know how he’s not showing any signs of it. How is he not feeling any pain? But again, I make another note to look at his wounds before the night is over, no matter what he says or how much he argues.
A second later, my thoughts come to a halt because I notice his hands going down to his jeans. Is it me or does he pause at the button? And is that really his dick tenting his pants? Because oh my God, his pants are tented. And this tent is really large and high, probably able to accommodate multiple people on a camping trip.
What the hell are you thinking, Jupiter?
I mentally shake my head and prop myself up on my hands, sitting up straighter, my eyes glued to the waistband of his jeans. I see his abs moving with a breath, the ridges of his six-pack standing out in stark relief as he pops the button. I fist the sheets with both hands as he lowers the zipper. And then squeeze my thighs really hard when, after going slow for the past couple of minutes, he loses patience and pushes his jeans and his underwear—black briefs—down. He does it so fast that his tent—shit, his dick—snaps out and slaps against his abs. Hard.
So hard that I flinch, but it could also be the fact that it leaves a wet trail because holy fuck, it’s leaking.
The head is so purple, so swollen that it looks like a bruise, and so shiny with all the precum dripping down. I can actually see it, the clear liquid oozing out of that slit at the top. And the vein he was talking about the other night, the one that throbs when I’m close and snakes along the length of his very large and fat dick, pulses in time with his breaths. My breaths too because I’m breathing in time with him. I make another note to lick it later, that vein. I bet his taste is all kinds of thick and potent down there. And his balls look so heavy and weighty as they hang there, between the most powerful thighs I’ve ever seen.