Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 27906 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27906 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
Gasping gets him groaning.
Pressing tighter against me.
Passionately.
Possessively.
I honestly cannot get enough of him holding me like I’m his and only his.
“The thing to remember with short courses like this is that the key to winning is controlling the speed.” I mindlessly melt against his bright blue, button down, Crusin’ The Galaxy cloaked torso. “You wanna position yourself to take an angle that avoids the tough terrain aka the uneven ridges of his nose.” Gently being guided over just a fraction has me granting him a barely audible sigh. “Next, you wanna grip the putter securely here,” J.T. uses his hand to gradually inch one of mine lower, “and,” his hold sensuously shifts the other, “here.”
The heat and heavy weight of his breath against the shell of my ear buckles my knees.
Causes them to knock into one another.
Clamp together in hopes of ignoring the increasing ache between my thighs.
Sulugivemestrength.
I shouldn’t be this fucking horny.
I already rubbed one out for the day.
What’s he doing to me?!
Is there nerd nip in his cologne?
Is that what’s mixing with the hints of citrus and amber?!
“Wh…” comes out in mostly air forcing me to immediately try again. “What um…what now?”
“Now,” he maintains his salacious grasp while continuing to lead, “square up the club head…” Together we execute the instruction. “Stand tall.” Desire to receive praise outranks the one to sink the shot. “Swing from the shoulders…” His fingers trail themselves up the length of my arms to featherily emphasize the area. “Not the wrist.”
Preventing my gaze from hooding is impossible.
As is remembering what it is I’m trying to do versus what it is I wanna do.
“Drown out all the distractions,” my fake bae warmly insists during his trekking backwards, “and give it a light…firm…stroke…”
With my tongue.
Got it.
Wait.
No.
That’s not the type of hole in one we’re playing right now!
However, it’s definitely the one we’ll be playing next.
I’d bet my framed and mounted Star Trek Gold Key Comics #1 on it.
Following through with the order sends my tiny ball traveling at a slightly curved angle that allows it to miss the uneven stretch of territory and cruise smoothly into the eye of the cursed Kazon. The instant it’s there, I gleefully leap into the air. “Yes!”
“I don’t think it’s normal to jump like a breaching mako over a put-put game,” gripes Bryn in the distance.
“I think you’re just bitter ‘cause you’re still not in the lead,” chuckles my twin from beside her.
“Thank you for that, Bones,” sardonically sneers the sassy woman who might actually be a good fit for my brother if she wasn’t already happily married. “You are clearly a doctor and an obviousitician.”
Jer loudly laughs during a headshake.
See.
That’s the type of person he needs!
A chick that isn’t afraid to buck back.
Who doesn’t feel the need to fall in line in order to fall in his favor.
Too bad the latter rarely crosses his path.
And when they do?
They’re typically already taken.
By Hollywood actors.
Or celebrity chefs.
Or retired military men who work for Haworth Enterprises, the company that supplies us with our personal bodyguards.
His perfect match is always taken and mine never seems to be real.
Even now.
Justus “J.T” Reese feels like a dream come true.
Too bad fake relationships usually turn into a nightmare.
“Didn’t think I’d get to see those cheerleader skills in action,” my coach warmly teases during his casual retrieving of my ball, “but I gotta admit. I’m impressed.” Once he’s headed back towards me with the object in his grasp, he adds, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one get that much air.”
“We typically don’t.” Disdain darts across tongue over the amendment I have to make. “Didn’t.” I give my hair a ruffle to help distract myself from the lingering resentment regarding being retired. “Half-time or sideline performances rarely ever offer the dancers – some of who are highly trained in acrobatics and gymnastics – the opportunity to demonstrate their extensive skills.” His arrival in front of me barely precedes my admission. “It’s more about properly timed ass pops and hair flips.”
“You wish it weren’t.”
My lips press firmly together instead of leaking out the answer.
“You wanna make it so it’s not.”
“I wanna make it so that it’s both.”
The confession causes him to lift his brows in curiousity.
“You can have beautiful women shaking their ass and playing with their hair and doing kick double full twists.”
“I like how that sounds.”
“I like how it looks.”
“I would like to see how it looks,” J.T. gives my loose tank top an encouraging tug, “with you choreographing it.”
Disbelief and adoration wrestle for the right to respond ultimately agreeing to a somewhat lecherous, twisted middle ground. “And I would like to see how you look with your cock in my mouth.”
Being completely caught off guard renders him speechless.
“I’ve never given a guy a blowie during a round of mini golf,” is quietly announced in our agreed upon “getting to know” fashion.