Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
He noticed I edited myself. But I keep my mouth shut and shake my head.
“Not going to tell me?” He runs the pad of his finger over the bristles now, then roams his eyes over me.
He has a game to go to, but he doesn’t look like he has any plans for leaving.
“I guess not,” I say, clenching my thighs as if that will ease the ache between them.
“Then I can’t help,” he says with a frown, flicking the bristles like he’s testing the texture, the softness, the possibilities.
I whimper at the sight of him assessing the kitchen implement. Somewhere inside of me, I know what he’s planning to do with it. Everywhere inside me wants him to.
“Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what it was? Maybe I could help?” There’s a husky edge to his voice as he dips his free hand into his back pocket and produces the towel I wore earlier. He brings it to his nose and inhales it. He closes his eyes, growling, like he’s savoring the scent of me. “When I grabbed this upstairs, it was all I could think about.”
So that’s what broke him. The scent of me on the towel. Knowing that, I say “fuck it” too.
“You could help with the ache between my thighs,” I offer.
His eyes fly open. Smiling salaciously, he tucks the towel back into his pocket, then lowers the basting brush between my thighs, running it along the fabric of my skort. He rubs me there, right there, where I want him. It’s such a relief.
“That helps,” I whisper breathily.
“Does it help enough?”
I shake my head. “I need a little more.”
“Yeah, you really do,” he says, then drags the bristles with more pressure down my center, then up, sliding against the fabric covering my swollen clit. With each stroke, I ache more and more.
I haul in a breath. “Don’t stop.”
“You need more help?” he asks teasingly.
“I do.”
He coasts the bristles over the fabric of my skort that’s getting wetter and wetter. My legs are already shaking.
“More,” I whisper. I can’t believe he’s doing this to me again. Practically getting me off without his hands, without his tongue, without his cock.
Before, it was his thigh. Now it’s a goddamn basting brush.
I’m close, but I’m not quite there. He pushes one leg of my skort to the side, exposing me in my panties to him. I’m dying for him to tear off my clothes, but I also know this is a game we’re playing. He rubs the bristles against the cotton of my panties, faster, a little harder, just right.
I gasp. I shudder. I grab his shoulders.
“This helps?” he asks innocently.
“So much,” I say.
“Would this help too?” He lifts the brush and slaps my ass with it. I yelp, because it hurts so good.
“Again?”
“Please.”
He smacks my other cheek as pleasure ripples through me. He smacks me one more time, and I tremble. “Helps so much,” I pant.
“Good,” he says, then returns to my pussy, where I’m aching for him. “Use this basting brush. Get it all wet with your juices. I want you to soak your panties so badly that I can taste you on this when you’re done.”
Pleasure zips through me. I rock against the brush as he strokes me with it until an orgasm seizes me. I moan. I cry out. I whimper. And I come so goddamn hard.
“So, so pretty,” he praises as he lifts the brush and sucks off the bristles. It didn’t even touch me. He used it through my panties, but he’s tasting it as if it’s the most delicious thing ever.
Maybe it is to him—this little taste. This tiny tease.
When he’s done, he smirks. “Like I said, I’m very helpful.”
I smile dopily, the aftereffects of the climax still rocking me. “You sure are.”
He sets the brush on the counter, then tugs off my skort. I’m not sure what he’s doing, but seconds later, he skims off my panties too, taking them. He drops them in his pocket, then he puts my skort back on.
When he finishes adjusting it, he smacks my ass. “That was just help. That was all.”
“Of course. And it won’t happen again. The help.”
“It won’t,” he says, with a longing that tells me he wants it to happen again and again.
He takes the basting brush, my panties, and the kitchen towel with him when he heads out, saying over his shoulder, “We should really get a new basting brush. This one is mine.”
25
DAYS LIKE THIS
CORBIN
The puck drops, and I’m off, skating hard down the ice at the start of the second period. Chicago has possession, but I’m closing in fast, stick ready to steal it away. Lake’s calling for it, and all I have to do is snag it, then pass it to him.
Instead, my mind rewinds to this afternoon and Mabel standing in nothing but that too-small towel.