Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
I brace both hands against the tile and drop my head, letting the steam fill the little room. Most days, I can empty my head in here, just focus on the sensation, the noise, the nothingness.
Not today.
Today, the image of Frankie is stuck in my mind, with her bright and sharp blue eyes hidden behind the glasses, pouty lips, and endless curves. She was fucking made just for me.
The way she stood, arms crossed and daring me to fix her car, the way her laugh snuck out before she could stop it.
The goddam water’s scalding my skin, but I don’t give a shit. My hands move all over my body, lathering up soap like I’m trying to scrub her memory off of me, but it’s useless. My hands slow down when they glide over my chest, my abs, my fucking cock twitching just from the thought of her. Frankie, with her black-framed glasses and that smirk that makes me want to pin her against the wall and remind her who’s in charge.
I glance at my reflection in the fogged-up glass. My jaw’s clenched, my eyes dark with hunger. I look like a fucking animal, and I don’t care. I can’t stop thinking about her. So, fuck it. I close my eyes and let the fantasy take over.
In my imagination, she's standing in my shower. Her chest is exposed and flawless, with her nipples hard like tiny pebbles from the chill of the tile against her back. Her glasses remain on, misting over. After all, it's my fantasy. Her skin is smooth and shiny from the water, slippery beneath my touch as I pull her hips toward me.
She’s not even a little shy in this version. Her mouth’s red and wet, begging for mine. She drags her tongue across her bottom lip, teasing me. Her teeth sink into my shoulder as her nails claw down my back, leaving marks I know I’ll feel for days.
“You gonna fuck me, Seth?” she whispers, her voice dripping with heat. I lift her, letting her curvy thighs wrap around my waist, pulling me in tighter. Her slick and ready cunt presses against my rock-hard cock.
“Yeah,” I growl, gripping her hair tightly before pulling her head back so she’s looking right at me. “You want it rough, don’t you?”
Her smirk’s all the answer I need.
I don’t fucking wait. I slam into her, and her back hits the tile while her moans mix with the sound of water pounding around us. She’s tight, so fucking tight, and wet, like she’s wanted this just as much as I have. Her nails dig into my shoulders as I pound into her, each thrust deeper, harder, until she’s screaming my name.
“Fuck me harder!” she demands, her voice breaking.
I comply. My hand, coarse against her skin, grips her hips, squeezes her backside, drawing her closer with each movement. The steam is dense, suffocating, but it doesn't matter to me. What matters is her, how she embraces me, how she responds as if she's been craving this.
"Come for me," I murmur, my voice deep as my hand moves to her clit, rubbing it firmly and quickly.
She does. Her body contracts around me, her moans escalating into screams as she climaxes, her thighs gripping me as if she'll never let go.
I’m not far behind. My hand’s tight around my cock, stroking fast and rough, exactly the way she’d want it. My orgasm hits me like a fucking freight train, violent and raw, my cum spilling out onto the tile as I grunt her name.
When it’s over, I’m goddamn wrecked. I lean against the tile, forehead pressed to the cold surface, trying to catch my breath. My heart’s pounding, my vision’s blurry, and I’m still fucking hard.
This isn’t enough. It’ll never be enough.
Fuck, I need her.
Eventually, the hot water runs out, and I turn the dial to cold. The shock wakes me up, resets the system. I step out, towel off, and look in the mirror again. My hair’s a mess and my skin’s red from the shower. I look like a man who just got laid, and maybe that’s close enough.
I pull on fresh jeans and a black t-shirt, nothing fancy. For a second, I think about calling Frankie back, coming up with an excuse to talk to her before dinner. I don’t. I’m not that far gone. Not yet.
Instead, I go to the kitchen to make a sandwich and eat it standing at the counter. I try to think about work. I have to deal with the Ferrari hood, the payroll run, and the EPA paperwork still waiting on my desk, but that shit is all white noise. I finish eating, rinse the plate, and go sit on the couch.
The sun is low outside, striping the room with orange and blue rays. There’s nothing to do but wait.