Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Our mouths ravenously part on impact, tongues unstoppable in their determination to devour one another.
Rolls are soft then hard.
Hard yet slow.
Slow but so all-consuming that it fails to really register when my scrub bottoms cascade to my ankles.
Or when his sweats are given a similar fate.
Thoughtful twirls transition into untamed tangles alongside impatient tugs at all the remaining material blocking our way.
I want them off.
I want to be getting off.
I want to be past the chorus, onto verse four, putting ad libs over the bridge, forfucksake.
Despite my whimpers and whines and wordless complaints to speed everything up – after all we are on a ticking clock – Jukes maintains his even temper demeanor.
His devotion to me.
Pleasing me.
Feeling me.
Exploring each and every curve the second it becomes exposed to the same unhurried pace that his tongue is subduing mine.
And the more impatient I become, the louder I moan and scratch and claw at his biceps.
Clumsily help him rip off his shirt.
Palm his hips and perfect plump ass I knew from the jump wasn’t all padding.
He groans in long stretches, serenading me in the most primitive fashion, greedily gripping a fistful of my hair at the same time he kisses me harder.
Blocks the desire to breathe.
Shoots away the need.
Stops every ounce of logic from reaching my brain until all that I am is a trembling, breathless, soaking wet, mess of a woman.
Aggressively pushing his naked frame onto the couch barely precedes me promptly returning to his lap where I brazenly grip his cock with one hand and brace the other one on his shoulder.
Whatever words Jukes anxiously wants to say during my slow descent are swiftly line changed for an airy, “FuckkkkkkGilly.”
Allowing my underworked muscles the opportunity to gradually stretch is meant to be responsible, not torturesome.
Avoid a bit of soreness, not shove me to the edge of a climax already.
No.
I can’t just start coming like I’m some sort of TV virgin about to have the most magical sex of her life.
I’m a grown ass woman.
I should be able to last more than one stroke without jumping onto the O-Town express.
But Godddddddd I don’t want to.
Not when I’m this wet.
And he’s this hard.
And every inch of his dick can be felt in my deepest depths.
Jukes gracelessly rests his forehead against mine at the same he purrs, “You feel so fucking good, Slayer.”
The term as much as the heat of his breath has my drenched muscles swelling.
Preparing to put up the first points of the night.
“So fucking perfect.”
Rolling into the words is mindless.
“And you are so fucking perfect…”
My head lolls backwards, chest crushing into his.
“Perfect…” his lips lightly feather the side of my elongated neck, “for…” they drag themselves down to trace my collarbone causing my hips to hungrily circle, “me.”
One tiny nip is all it takes to have my eyes squeezing shut in pure ecstasy.
White hot thrumming curls around every inch of his cock, enveloping it from base to tip, obsessed with the notion of covering his entire length, claiming him the way he just claimed me.
That he’s claimed me from the moment we met.
“Take whatever you need from me, Slayer,” he instructs prior to grating his teeth across my skin to repeat the action on the other side. “However, you need it.” Cupping my ass gets me arching into him once more. “I’m yours.”
Mewls – I swear I’ve only heard in overdramatic sex scenes on TV – shoot past my parted lips alongside more ferocious rocking that continuously caress my clit.
Light brushes spark the craving for more pressure and in spite of me not saying a single word, Jukes swiftly delivers.
Lets one hand grip my ass while the other clamps down on the back of my thigh.
Yanks me into our incessant grinding.
Forces me to endure the increasing intensity.
Buck into the bliss.
Barbarically bury his dick to the brink.
“You’re such a good girl ridin’ my cock like this…”
Louder, less dainty whimpers attach themselves to more unrestrained heaving.
“Such a good girl sayin’ my number earlier…” An undeniably feral flex of his finger is accompanied by delicious grumble. “Be a good girl again for me.” The digit closest to my back hole grants itself a salacious stroke. “Say. It.”
“Thirty-five,” leaves me in a pant that’s more air than anything else.
“See,” he arrogantly groans, “so perfect, baby.”
Time suddenly ceases to exist as our bodies unremittingly whirl in a barbarous blur of huffs and puffs and back breaking shudders.
Sweat sloppily gets smeared across my back and thighs and knees yet rather than shy away from the stickiness, he embraces it.
Possessively runs his fingers through it, pawing and clawing and praising anything and everything he touches.
Loose hair begins falling from my messy bun, allowing them to be toyed with and tangled whenever my frame is hunched forward instead of back.
Squeaks from the couch create a carnal concert that’s joined by hitched breaths and heavy groaning, all of which become the perfect soundtrack to the best sex I’ve ever had in my life.