Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
A rush of pleasure spreads through me, heat and sparks filling my cells. Do I tell him? Do I say it?
Fuck it. “I like to play with them when I get myself off,” I admit.
His eyes darken. He sucks in a staggered breath. “You playing with your tits when you’re alone is the hottest thing ever.”
Then he straddles me and unhooks my bra from the clasp in the middle, letting the cups fall to the side. His big hands palm my tits.
I grow wetter by the second, arching into his touch.
He squeezes both a little bit harder.
I squirm.
He kneads them roughly.
I gasp.
He flicks his finger against the barbell on the left one, and my voice pitches up.
“Oh god. So good,” I cry out.
He teases the right one. I nearly scream.
The look on his face is pure satisfaction as he moves off me slightly and issues a command: “Spread these thighs, baby.”
I comply, and when his gaze lands on the wet patch of my panties, his hazel eyes go feral. “Fuck, baby. You do like nipple play,” he says.
And the answer is fuck yes. He returns his hands to my breasts, rubbing, squeezing, making me writhe against his touch.
A flush crawls down my chest, and my skin warms everywhere. A pulse beats between my thighs.
Tyler dips his face, buries it between the valley of my tits, then draws one nipple between his lips and flicks his tongue across the barbell.
Then he does the same to the other.
Soon, I’m panting, arching, and—I’m dripping. I’m so wet, so turned on I can’t stand it. My arms strain against the scarves.
As I try to break free, his laugh cuts through, but then it vanishes as he palms my right breast another time and draws my hard nipple back to his mouth, his tongue swirling across the piercing again and again in a dizzying, intoxicating motion.
I nearly come. “Keep doing that,” I urge.
And he does one better. He kisses and sucks, while dipping his other hand into my panties.
And the second his fingers meet my slick heat I lose my mind. Less than a minute later, I’m gasping and falling apart. I jerk against the scarves, losing myself to him, and moaning for a good, long time until the dramatic cry of a kitten pierces the air.
“Ha. Told you she needed something,” Tyler says, triumphant, pointing to Drama sitting in the doorway, meowing for attention.
“Fine. You’re right, Cat Daddy.”
“I knew it,” he says, then hops out of bed to fetch the furball.
I peer over at the big, strapping hockey stud cradling a tiny kitten against his chest. I sigh happily. “I think she wants you to throw her one of those tinfoil balls,” I say.
“Perfect. I get to play with both of you,” Tyler says.
And a few minutes later, he’s multitasking—tossing tinfoil balls to the kitten while stroking my pussy again, bringing me to another orgasm.
We’ve broken our number one rule. It feels like we’re breaking an unwritten one when a few minutes later, he says, “Tell me about your lessons.”
I snort. “Is that a condition of untying?”
His eyes shoot to my wrists, still shackled by the silk scarves. “Oh shit,” he says, then hustles to untie me.
He stretches across me, and wow, I have quite a nice view of his chest. It’s so strong and sturdy, and there’s a bruise right there. As he frees my right hand, I reach for the bruise, gently touching the inky lake on his right pec, just under his kids’ birthdays. “Does this hurt?” I ask as he shifts to my left wrist.
He glances down at me, pausing his knot work. His lips shift. “If I say yes, will you kiss it?”
The flirt is strong in him.
“I guess you’ll have to find out.” I suppose it’s strong in me too.
He frowns, playing it up. “It hurts so much.”
I stretch closer, pressing a kiss to the slab of muscle. His breath hitches as I touch him, and a thrill rushes through me.
He unknots the scarf on my left wrist, freeing me and catching my left hand in his. He strokes the faint red marks the material’s left on my arm. “Does this hurt?”
Well, two can play at this game. “Yes.”
He kisses it, then my other wrist. I shiver from his soft touches, these after kisses to my once-bound wrists. From under him like this, I scan his upper body, spotting a scratch on his forearm. With him still leaning over me, I drag a finger across the cut—it’s maybe a week old, nearly healed. “This?”
He pauses, then perhaps gives in completely, letting me take the lead in this game as he says, “So much.”
I kiss him there, a slow, sweet kiss that makes his breath catch once again. I didn’t know these soft kisses could affect a man like this. Could affect this man like this. I study his face, hunting for any marks and bruises from the rough sport he plays for a living, then run my finger down his cheek, traveling to a small cut along his jaw. “And this?”