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)
Despite not being able to have much of a conscious thought, I still tilt my neck to the side in invitation. And he takes it and sinks his teeth into my flesh, giving me a necklace made of bruises just as he gave me his cum.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I open my eyes to the sun streaming through the window.
Strong sun too. Meaning, it’s late in the day. But that’s not what wakes me up. It’s something else. A bevy of sensations, some familiar but some strange, including one very bizarre one. A pointed something—a tip?—soft and light, running across my skin. On the side of my waist, precisely. I frown into the pillow.
Quickly, I catalog everything. I’m lying in bed, on my tummy, my cheek is pressed into the pillow, my face turned toward the window. I can see the sky through the glass, sunny and clear. But most of my attention is taken up by the fact that I can feel the sheets on my skin.
Or rather, my naked body.
Just the word ‘naked’ wakes me up the way even the sun couldn’t, and neither could that tickling sensation that I still feel. I try to push myself up, but suddenly there’s a hand on the back of my neck. Hot and dominating. It pushes me back down on the bed with a gruff, “Shh, don’t move.”
My heart starts slamming in my chest as I turn my face to look up at him and freeze. Because the sun streaming through the window is mostly pouring its light on him, and I can see those chocolate-colored strands in his messy hair, thick and shiny, that I’m always looking for but they’re so well hidden that I rarely get to see them. Not today though. Today, I can see everything. I even discover something new. That his eyelashes have hidden chocolate in them too, and it’s such a surprise to find something new and unique in him, after years and years of watching him and thinking I know all his hidden secrets, that my heart skips a beat.
My heart also skips a beat at the fact that he, himself, looks like a treasure right now. Kneeling and poised over me, his head dipped down and his brows furrowed in concentration, with sunlight kissing every inch of his corded and roped muscles, he looks like a statue made of gold. God, he’s so beautiful, and he’s all mine. For now, at least.
And he’s mine in a way that I know what his collarbone tastes like, or that groove in his throat. I know what his nipples feel like in my mouth, hard and pointy. I know it takes me a grand total of seventy-five seconds to lick his entire six pack, if I’m being thorough, that is. And I know that I still don’t know what his dick tastes like. Because he wouldn’t let me put it in my mouth. Because according to him, last night was about me and my pussy befriending the monster, not going on an adventure with him yet. His words, not mine. He said he’ll teach me when I won’t flinch at his first stroke. I told him it probably wasn’t going to happen because he’d forever be that big and I’d probably forever be that small. Or at least, I didn’t think it would happen any time soon.
Because last night, we had sex three times, and it still felt like he was slowly killing me every time he pushed in. So one time, he simply played with my sore pussy, rubbing the head of his dick against my clenching hole before running his length along the center of my core and making me come just from that. Although, when it was his time to come, he did push his dick in a little bit, just the tip, and came inside my pussy.
All of this to say, it was a success. As in, we did become friends, his dick and my pussy. We became the best of friends, because even when I was so sore and on the verge of passing out, I was literally humping his body and begging him to put it in me one more time. But he refrained. He turned me on my side, plastered his sweaty, heaving chest against my equally sweaty and heaving spine, and spooned me.
And now, this. Sun and him kneeling over me looking like the soccer god he is. Or rather, he’s kneeling between my spread thighs. I fist the sheets and move my eyes to see what he’s doing. Because he’s the one causing that tickling sensation.
“Why are you…” I begin, watching his corded biceps and veined forearms move, “drawing on my skin?”
He’s got a Sharpie in his hand, a purple Sharpie, and he’s very carefully drawing something on my body, the side of my waist and my mid-back. At my question, he licks his lips and frowns a little more in concentration as he replies, without looking away, “I’m tracing your freckles.”