Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 57779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
My butterfly is still soaring high.
“Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Water?” Miranda spins to face me, wafting a scent that is uniquely her. “Japanese whisky?”
When I shake my head, she shrugs before she downs a healthy mouthful from a bottle that retails in the high three hundreds.
With the twitching of her nose announcing the tingles racing across her plump lips, she checks the denseness of a yellow batter in a mixing bowl before switching off the mixer and transferring the ingredients into a circular pre-prepared cake tin.
“I bake when…” Lines sprout across her nose when her expression tightens into an adorable scowl. “I used to bake when depressed. It doesn’t feel right saying that now.”
When she gestures for me to sit across from her, I slip onto a backless stool without protest. I don’t usually take orders—I give them. But something about this woman has me acting differently. Less murderous.
I could play it off as if I’m mellowing as I age, but that would be a copout. I wasn’t mellow when I popped a bullet into a thug’s head because he thought he could outsmart the Popovs’ head hacker by doctoring the IP address of the company profiting from Miranda’s metamorphosis. And I wasn’t chill when I realized how many people had seen images of Miranda and me in varying arrays of undress.
For the most part, in the X-rated exposé, Miranda is covered. I was too up in her business to allow inches upon inches of her skin to be left without the attention of my hands, mouth, and cock, but the portions of her body you could see, and her expression when she orgasmed, turned my heart to stone.
I want to be the only man privileged to see them, and you can be certain I’ll murder anyone who dares to look after me.
I’ll track them down, every single one of the fools who have seen the footage, but I figured I should give the lady of the hour a heads-up on her recent surge in popularity before she finds out from someone other than her co-star.
“Help yourself,” Miranda offers when she mistakes my moment of contemplation as desperation to sample one of the many baked goods on her kitchen counter. “There’s more here than I could ever eat.”
She mutters something under her breath, but I miss what she says. I can’t hear a thing over the moan that rumbles up my chest when I pop a weird-looking rice bubble slice into my mouth. It tastes like heaven and sin—an equivalent of the flavors of its creator’s pussy.
“That…” I stop talking, too busy stuffing another slice into my mouth to continue. “Mm.”
Miranda’s grin makes my dick ache. “Ferrero Rocher slice”—she places down a similarly sized slice, but it is yellow instead of chocolatey brown and has shredded coconut on top—“is the perfect accompanier for a lemon coconut slice. The mix of sweet and sour and smooth and tarty is…”
She puckers her lips, and all I can think about is having them circling my cock.
I missed the chance when her confidence dipped to a point I couldn’t ignore, but I’m not disappointed. Her pussy tastes godly, faultlessly matching her thoughts on her baked treats.
“… perfectly divine.”
I don’t even try to conceal my moan this time. The slices are delicious, and my taste buds dance with euphoria as much now as they did the afternoon she sat on my face.
A sense of achievement highlights Miranda’s gorgeous features as she cuts a piece out of all the baked goodies and places them onto a diabetic’s-one-way-ticket-to-death charcuterie board.
She doesn’t eat a single crumb. I want to say it is because she is full from sampling the goods while baking them like she did the whisky, but my top-of-the-class stalking skills announce that isn’t true.
She’s either holding back because she hates being eyeballed while eating, or she is a person who gets pleasure from watching others be pleased.
She didn’t seem the latter when she lowered her pussy onto my face, but you can never tell.
I could smell how wet Tasha’s pussy got while explaining to me how Miranda’s severance of the camcorder cable wouldn’t have removed the footage that had already been uploaded to her Only Fans page. And unlike the man I killed thirty minutes ago, the wet patch on the front of Miranda’s husband’s pants when she found him in the walk-in closet wasn’t urine.
Roy pissed himself at the start of the proceedings. It smelled nothing like the rank smell that poured out of the closet when he wordlessly begged for Miranda’s forgiveness like he wasn’t surrounded by multiple pictures of his deceit.
Miranda’s stomach grumbles again, drawing me from dangerous thoughts. It has grumbled multiple times over the past twenty minutes, sounding as ravenous as my mouth is to become reacquainted with her pussy.