Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 63638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Good. Get comfortable. Your night deserves a happy ending.
He sends another picture of him winking at me. That single icy-blue eye spears straight to my core, and damn it, the top half of his face is every bit as hot as the lower. Heat pulses through me, my mind full of his smooth words and that lethal body.
I drop onto the bed, fingers tightening around my phone as I imagine him here with me. I imagine the weight of his body, the hard planes of his back, the heat of his breath at my neck—those blue eyes pinning me in place beneath him. A phantom grip cinches my waist, sending a delicious shiver down my spine.
I hesitate, biting my lip, but the pulsing ache between my thighs makes the decision for me. My free hand dips under the waistband of my panties, tracing a slow, teasing path lower.
You’re dangerous.
And you like it.
My breath hitches as I press my fingers against my aching heat, a moan slipping from my lips. I conjure the sound of his voice. It’s gravelly and commanding, murmuring in my ear, telling me exactly how he’d touch me, exactly how he’d ruin me.
I let the fantasy take over, hips arching into my own touch. My phone slides off the bed, forgotten, as I sink deeper into the sensation. In my mind, it’s the stranger’s hands trailing over my skin, his body pressing me into the mattress, his teeth grazing my throat.
I feel the phantom weight of him between my thighs, the scorch of his breath at my neck. His voice, dark and dripping with promise.
You like that, don’t you, malyshka?
A moan catches in my throat as my body tightens, starving for more. I plunge two fingers deep inside myself, breath tearing free as I chase the high building inside me. I can almost feel him, the rough scrape of his stubble against my skin, the commanding grip of his hands.
I use my own juices and swirl my finger over my clit until the climax crashes over me, a sharp, shattering pleasure unfurling in waves. I bite my lip, stifling my cry, thighs clenching as I ride it out.
When the aftershocks fade and my body relaxes against the sheets, a slow, satisfied sigh escapes me.
The moment my breathing steadies and reality seeps back in, embarrassment hits hard. I stare at my phone, pulse still thrumming from the high I just chased, and wonder what the hell is wrong with me.
I just got off to a man I’ve never even met. A faceless stranger with nothing but potentially misplaced confidence and a cocky choice of words.
So that was an accident. The text, I mean.
I should leave it at that. Close the chat, toss the phone on the nightstand, and crash. But I don’t. Instead, I keep my eyes glued to the screen, stomach tight with anticipation. His reply pops up a few seconds later.
No such thing as accidents, malyshka.
And just like that, the ache stirs all over again.
If I had meant to text you, I would’ve led with something classier.
So you’re saying you don’t normally send angry texts to strange men in the middle of the night?
Believe it or not, no. I actually have standards.
Then why were you on a date with a guy who didn’t?
Oof. That one stings. The truth is, I knew better. I’d pegged him as a waste of my time the moment he spent more energy scrolling his phone than looking at me.
I should’ve walked out then, but I didn’t, because it’s been months since I put myself out there, and I was sick of feeling alone.
I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.
A woman like you shouldn’t have to.
My breath catches in my throat.
And what kind of woman am I?
The kind that deserves better.
It’s such a simple thing to say, but something about it leaves me speechless. It’s been a long time since I’ve let a man get under my skin. The last time I dipped a toe back into dating, it spiraled into months of wasted time, empty promises, and me sitting alone at a two-top while my ex ghosted me for the final time.
I swore I wasn’t going to do that to myself again. I swore I was going to focus on work, on myself, on anything that didn’t involve men and the inevitable disappointment that followed.
But something in the ease of this stranger’s messages makes it hard to remember why I built that wall in the first place.
You can make it up to me.
My eyebrows furrow as I reread the message.
Make what up to you? I reply.
The accidental text.
And how exactly can I do that?
Let a real man take you on a date.
My fingers hover, frozen, above the keyboard. Meeting him in real life could shatter the intoxicating image I’ve already built—one that just gave me a mind-blowing orgasm. Reality might fall painfully short.