Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“You want to come for me, baby?” I grab her hair and pull. She screams a moan. “Say fucking please.”
“Please!” Her mouth hangs open. I brush my fingers along her clit, getting them wet, and shove them between her lips.
“Suck while you come.”
That does it. The orgasm rips her into pieces as she shatters in my lap. Her moans are muffled by my fingers as she greedily keeps sucking like a good girl. It’s the most glorious thing I’ve seen in my life. Her breasts shake, her pierced nipple stiff, and I finally can’t help myself. I come moments later, filling her with my warmth.
We come to a reluctant stop. She remains in my lap, breathing hard. I hold her against me, smelling her, kissing her softly, whispering how she’s such a good girl, how she did such a good job, how she’s beautiful. I praise her over and over again because she deserves it.
Riley’s impulsive and stubborn, but my god.
She’s also incredible.
“When do we start planning?” she murmurs against my neck.
I groan and close my eyes. I’m a weak man.
But she’s also right.
This is the only way.
And if I’m involved, at least I can make sure she has the best chance possible at pulling it off.
“Tomorrow morning.”
Chapter 23
Riley
I’m nervous and jittery as I start to climb. The branches are strong and clustered together, and I’m able to swing up without too much trouble. I have a thick, heavy-duty Kevlar blanket strapped to my back. It’s itchy but doesn’t restrict movement. Once I get to the right height, I tuck myself back against the trunk and wait.
It would be mortifying if this heist failed because I fell out of a freaking tree.
“You all good?” Alexan’s voice purrs in my ear. I’m wearing a tiny headpiece attached to a high-tech receiver attached to my belt. I’m in all black with black latex gloves, comfortable black running shoes, and a little hip pouch filled with any thieving tool I could think of.
“I’m in position,” I say back. No need to hit a button. We’re in constant communication.
“It’s ten to three right now. From what I can see, it looks quiet out there.”
I take a pair of tiny binoculars from my belt and look out across the parking lot. “Looks the same to me.” Nothing moves. Nobody on the roof, nobody in the cars. Dead silent. “How’s it going on your end?”
“No problems here. I slipped into the network a few minutes ago, and I’ll have the entire system under control shortly.”
“That’s good. Because I’m pretty sure I’m screwed if you don’t. There are a lot of cameras.”
I don’t like the smugness in his voice. “I told you, you can’t do this without me.”
“Prick,” I mutter, but he’s absolutely right.
“Just hold tight for my signal.”
We fall into silence. I hear him typing on the other end. His breathing is steady and strangely calming. I’m nervous as hell and on edge, but he doesn’t seem bothered at all. It’s like he does this sort of thing all the time.
In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have pushed so hard.
I mean, he’s right. This plan is crazy. But I’m absolutely confident I can pull it off, even if I’m starting to have some second thoughts.
This is what happens all the time. I make an impulsive decision, stubbornly refuse to change, and regret it afterward.
I could back out. I’m sure he’d be relieved if I did. In fact, he already tried to talk me out of this a dozen times.
But I’m committed. We’re in this mess because of me. I’m going to clean up after myself, even if I do it in my own crazy way.
And besides, there’s no way I can turn back now, not when I feel so freaking alive.
For the first time since I got married, I have control over my situation. We have a plan, and it’s up to me to make it happen. Nobody else can pull this off except for me. I feel brighter, the air is sweeter, and my body is stronger than it’s ever been.
“You want to hear something?” I whisper while glancing at my watch. Two minutes.
“Tell me, baby.”
“I had this sick obsession with screwing up back when I did gymnastics.”
A short pause. “That doesn’t sound good.”
I stifle a nervous laugh. “No, I mean, the moment right after. I never tried to screw up, but you know, stuff happens.”
“What were you so obsessed about?”
“That feeling the second after you know you fucked up bad. Sometimes you’re flying in the air, mid-twist, and you’re absolutely positive you’re about to land hard and it’s going to hurt. Then you land hard, and it hurts like hell, and you have a choice. Give up, since your routine is boned anyway, or get up and finish. Every girl reacted differently in that situation, and it was so fascinating.”