Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92899 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92899 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
He hissed in a breath that was a groan in reverse. “Shit, Tommy.”
I licked along the stubbled bump of his Adam’s apple. The difference between this and everything I’d ever done with a woman was striking. This was rough and aggressive, raw and… powerful. It was strength matched and mirrored. Unfiltered and unpretentious. I didn’t even know how to describe it, but I knew I wanted—needed—more.
Foster’s guttural voice vibrated through my lips. “Gonna make me come.”
“You’re the one doing it,” I said, suddenly feeling giddy.
“Driving me crazy, swear to fuck.” He tightened his grip and changed the rhythm.
I gasped and leaned into him, grasping the fabric of his shirt to keep from falling.
“Need you to come, sweetheart.”
That was all it took. The tender command spoken in his broken voice. My release hit hot and hard. The entire thing had lasted seconds, mere moments of frantic desperation, but the orgasm that ripped through me solidified the line between Then and Now. Between who I was before and who I wanted to be.
The real me. A man not afraid to take what he wanted, to feel pleasure without apology. To let someone take care of me, command me, and show me how good it could be.
Foster grunted before his hot release joined mine on my stomach. The sound of his release in the otherwise quiet room caused Chickie to lift her head up, jingling the tags on her collar.
“‘S’okay, girl,” I said with a laugh, breath heaving and sweat curling along my spine. “Go back to sleep.”
“Fuck,” Foster mumbled. He turned his face and pressed his lips against my hot cheek. “Fuck.”
I turned my face until our lips met. This time, the kiss was slow and indulgent, lingering and sweet. In all the times I’d fantasized about kissing Foster, never had I imagined it would be this good, this… patient and gentle.
Eventually, the cooling jizz on my skin began to itch, and I pulled away. “Any chance you’d let me clean up before letting me get you dirty again? I’m going to need to gather more data before making any scientific conclusions about men versus women and all that.”
I tried for an easy, flirty smile, but inside, I felt like I could barely breathe, waiting for his response. I needed him to say yes, to agree this wasn’t just a onetime thing. He’d made it sound like he was willing to give me eight weeks.
And I was ready to take advantage of every single hour of them if he’d let me.
His eyes pinned me, even though his grin was easy. “Mmm. Maybe we should shower together instead. For the sake of the environment.”
I blew out a breath and grinned back.
Thank fuck.
The first thing I noticed when consciousness crept back in the next morning was the weight of Foster’s arm across my chest, heavy and warm and real in a way that made my heart skip.
The second was the steady rhythm of his breath against my neck—the slow and even respiration of deep sleep—and how each exhale sent goose bumps racing down my spine.
And the third was that I was terrified to move.
We’d fallen asleep tangled together after… Christ. After I’d had my soap-slicked hand wrapped around Foster Blake’s cock, watching his face transform as he came apart under my touch. After he’d whispered my name like a prayer and pulled me against him like he never wanted to let go.
Now, in the pale dawn light filtering through the cabin’s thin curtains, I was cataloging every point of contact between our bodies. His thigh thrown over mine. His fingers still loosely curled around my hip. The warm press of his chest against my shoulder.
Eight—no, seven and a half—weeks. That was all he could give me.
The memory of his hands on my skin, the way he’d responded to my touch, the broken sound he’d made when I’d brought him over the edge—it played on repeat in my mind. I’d never been with a man before, but touching Foster had felt as natural as breathing. The weight of him in my palm, the way his breath had hitched when I’d found the rhythm he needed, the vulnerable expression on his face in those final moments.
I was in so much trouble.
“It can’t be more than this,” he’d said, his voice rough with want and something that sounded dangerously close to fear. “When SERA is over, you’re gone.”
I’d agreed because what choice did I have? A summer with Foster was better than a lifetime of wondering what if.
But lying here now, listening to his steady breathing and his thumping heart, I wondered if I was setting myself up for the kind of heartbreak I’d never recover from.
Touching him, being with him like this—it hadn’t felt temporary. It had felt like coming home.
Now, I kept my eyes closed and lay as still as possible, afraid that the slightest movement would shatter whatever spell had settled over us. That Foster would wake up, remember all the reasons he’d said this was a terrible idea, and retreat behind his walls again.