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)
I sway.
I’m falling closer to him when his lips dust across my forehead.
The gasp that escapes me is both carnal and innocent, like his kiss.
Then, he lets go, scoops me up, and lays me down on the bed.
Carefully, he removes each slide, even though I could kick them off. He drops one more kiss to my forehead and says, “I’ll be right back.”
His footsteps grow quieter, the door clicks shut, and I squirm, relishing in all these delicious sensations zipping through my body.
I should take off this dress.
I should get ready for his return.
He’s probably getting a condom.
He’ll come back, fuck me senseless, and serve me breakfast in the morning.
I stretch like a cat as I picture the rest of the night.
Until the day floats before my eyes—a song, a fast ride in a car, a forbidden snack, a caring man.
And a very soft pillow for my tired mind.
4
GIVE OR TAKE THE BLOWTORCH
Sabrina
The funny thing about a dull throb is it still hurts like a motherfucker. Sunlight spills through the curtains—too bright, too soon, and like a hammer to my head. My dress is twisted around my waist, the delicate fabric going every which way, including down my chest.
Great. I’m flashing the top of my boobs at…I pause, listening. Nothing but silence.
Okay, so I’m flashing my boobs at myself. Wonderful. I grab the bodice and wiggle it back up when I remember—my tiara. I reach for it, but it’s not tangled in my mess of hair or tossed onto a pillow. My French twist is askew too. I peer around, but the tiara’s nowhere in sight.
I sigh, regret slamming over me, hard and sharp. The tiara was the only thing I truly wanted to keep from last night. It’s probably on the floor somewhere, tangled up with my dignity.
My mouth tastes like mistakes as I push myself up, the rustle of this awful tulle dress filling the quiet room.
Too quiet.
Hmm. Where’s Tyler? Did he stay? Did we…oh god, did I…?
The memory hits me like a slap.
The last thing I remember is Tyler kissing my forehead and saying he’d be right back. To get a condom, I thought. Or at least, I’d hoped. I was half-drunk, fully committed, and one hundred ten percent ready for the hot dad to make all my fantasies come true. And then…nothing. I conked out.
I groan, dropping back onto the bed, the tulle of the skirt rustling like a soundtrack to my humiliation. He must’ve come back to find me passed out cold, mouth open, probably snoring, and still dressed like a fairy-tale disaster.
Ugh. I didn’t radiate sex appeal last night. I radiated Weird Barbie making rude sex eyes in a garish dress.
When I sit up, the dull throb in my head jeers How do you like me now? I wince but then spot a glass of water on the nightstand and a little silver dish with three ibuprofen in it. My throat tightens with unexpected emotion. It’s such a thoughtful touch that I want to cry for reasons I can’t even explain.
I down the pills with a gulp of water, grateful for small mercies. A neatly folded note sits beside the glass, but before I can reach for it, there’s a knock at the door.
A flare of tension rushes through me. It has to be Tyler. I don’t think we screwed last night, but did we…this morning? For a few seconds, my hormones dance a jig. Oh, I hope he fucked me really good. But when I glance down at the sea of lace and tulle—and feel my panties still firmly in place—I’m pretty sure nothing came off last night or this morning.
Damn shame.
I shuffle to the door, past his suitcase, bracing myself to face him and his understandable rejection of me. Peeking through the peephole, I see…room service? I crack the door open just enough to avoid inflicting my dragon breath on the unsuspecting server.
“Sorry, I didn’t order room service,” I mumble.
“Mr. Falcon did,” the server says brightly. “He asked for it to be brought to you around ten a.m. and to be left outside the door if you didn’t answer. But here you are.”
He wheels the cart in and sets the tray on the desk. The spread is ridiculous: a bread basket with toast and scones, plus fruit, coffee, and condiments.
I try to muster some decorum, but the embarrassment is real. Do I tip him? With my own money? On Tyler’s room?
“Uh, can I tip you with…Venmo?” I ask since that’s all I’ve got.
The server shakes his head, smiling. “No need. Everything has been taken care of by Mr. Falcon. Please enjoy.”
He slips out, leaving me alone in Tyler’s room once again. My stomach growls. Apparently, eating is a good idea. I grab a piece of toast and take a bite, moaning softly. Heaven.