Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 16456 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 82(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 16456 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 82(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
Only then do I pull back, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand as I look up at her. She's a vision—cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes glazed with pleasure.
I've just crossed a line I can never uncross. Landlord and tenant, neighbors, whatever we were before—it's all changed now. And it feels so damn good.
She reaches for me, pulling me up for a kiss. I let her taste herself on my tongue, groaning when her hand brushes against the bulge in my jeans.
"You said the real thing is better," she whispers against my mouth. "I think I should be the judge of that, don't you?"
Her hand cups me through my jeans, and I nearly come right then and there like a teenager. I want nothing more than to strip off the rest of our clothes and bury myself inside her.
But something stops me. Maybe it's the fact that I want this to be more than just sex. Maybe it's because I want to do this right.
I capture her hand, bringing it to my lips. "Not until I take you out on a proper date."
4
ALYSSA
Istare at Damien, my mind struggling to catch up with what just happened. His words—"Not until I take you out on a proper date"—echo in my head as I sit half-naked on his coffee table, my pajama pants around my ankles, my body still trembling from the most intense orgasm of my life.
He just ... with his mouth ... and now he wants to date me? Did I somehow wake up this morning in an alternate universe where a man like Damien wants a woman like me?
Am I dreaming? Is this some kind of cosmic joke?
"You want to take me on a date?" I manage to ask, my voice hoarse. "After ... that?"
Damien smiles, and it transforms his usually stern face into something devastatingly handsome. His stubble is glistening—with my juices, oh God—and somehow that's the detail that makes this all feel real.
"Especially after that." He steps back, giving me space to pull my pants up. "I want to do this right, Alyssa."
My hands fumble with my clothing as I try to process what's happening. This grumpy, gorgeous giant of a man who just gave me a mind-blowing orgasm with his mouth, and now he's acting like a perfect gentleman? The cognitive dissonance is giving me whiplash.
"There's a right way to do this?" I ask, my lips quirking up. "Pretty sure we're already doing things out of order."
He chuckles, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Fair point. But I'd still like to take you to dinner. Tomorrow night?"
I stand up on shaky legs, tugging my sweater back down. "You're serious."
"Very." His gray eyes hold mine, all traces of humor gone. "I've wanted to ask you out for weeks."
My heart does a somersault in my chest. "You have?"
"Since the day you moved in." He takes a step closer, and I can smell myself on his breath. It should be embarrassing, but it's strangely intimate. "So? Dinner?"
"Yes," I say, surprising myself with how quickly I answer. "Tomorrow night sounds perfect."
"Good. I'll pick you up at seven."
As I walk back to my apartment, my legs still wobbly, I can't help the stupid grin spreading across my face. I just made out with Damien Finch. No—I just had his head between my thighs. And tomorrow, we're going on a date.
What universe did I slip into, and how do I make sure I never leave?
My phone pings as I close my door, and I pull it out to see an Instagram notification. One of my followers has commented on my latest post—a video tutorial for a cable-knit scarf.
Marcus_Lover87: You're so beautiful when you concentrate, love of my life. I can't wait to start our life together. Soon.
I grimace, quickly swiping away the notification. Another creepy comment from that account. I get them occasionally—occupational hazard of being a female content creator—but this user has been particularly persistent lately.
I'll deal with it tomorrow. Tonight, I have more important things to think about, like what the hell I'm going to wear on my date with Damien.
By seven the following evening, I've tried on every item of clothing I own. My bed is a wasteland of discarded outfits, and I'm standing in front of the mirror in a dark blue wrap dress that hugs my curves without making me feel self-conscious about my height.
I'm a jittery mess of nerves. This morning, the reality of what happened hit me—I let my landlord go down on me on his coffee table. The same table where he probably eats breakfast. The same man I've awkwardly avoided eye contact with in the hallway for months.
What was I thinking?
But then I remember his hands, strong and massive and veiny, on my thighs. His mouth, hot and demanding, between my legs. The way he looked at me afterward.