Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
"You could've asked someone else to fucking help," I growl as I struggle to look away from his ass.
"Chill out," he snaps without looking back at me. "It's only going to take a minute of your precious fucking time."
The old Zayne would've never spoken to me that way. I can't count how many times I abused the trust we had with each other by being an asshole and threatening to end our little meetings if he so much as pissed me off.
Good for him having a backbone. Bad for me that it turns me on in a way it shouldn't.
Silence swirls, seeming thicker than the sound of our boots on the stairs as he directs us up to the third floor. Of course, this man would need to be all the way up here.
His room looks no different from mine did the day I moved in. With the exception of a different bedding set, even the furniture is exactly the same. Some bed-in-a-box bullshit that has actually turned out to be more comfortable than I thought it would at first sight.
"I want the bed on that wall instead," Zayne says, pointing from where it is now to the far wall to the left. "Just help."
I can tell from the scuff mark on the floor that he actually tried to move the bed at some point, and that makes me feel a little better about this not being some sort of ploy to get me alone.
For a bed-in-a-box, this motherfucker is actually heavy, and a grunt escapes my mouth on the first push.
I watch a smile spread across his face. "That sounds familiar."
Ignoring him, I keep working, moving the bed to where he wants it before speaking.
"Familiar how?" I ask, too curious to remain silent.
"That grunt," he says. "That's the only sound you make when you come."
You could knock me over with a fucking feather for the bravery it takes for this man to bring that shit up. But I guess I shouldn't be surprised. He didn't hesitate last night to mention something similar to a roomful of people he doesn't even know.
"Get the fuck out of here," I mutter before turning for the door.
I feel his presence with every step I take down the stairs, and as aware as I am of him, I don't anticipate him grabbing my arm and spinning me around to face him.
He shakes his head when I open my mouth to ask him what the fuck he thinks he's doing, and for some reason, I stay silent.
I don't say a word as his eyes rake down my body in a way that feels like an embrace.
I don't tell him to stop when his eyes land right on the front of my jeans, my growing cock becoming more than a little noticeable.
I don't shove him away or even utter one word of rejection when his fingers work with such precision and skill that I wonder just how often he does this, despite the way it makes an unfamiliar streak of misplaced jealousy swarm inside of me.
I don't tell him to quit fucking around when he reaches inside of my boxer briefs and wraps his fist around my now rock-hard dick.
Instead, I press my palms flat against the wall and give him free rein to do whatever he wants, a power I have seldom relinquished in my entire life.
The sight of his head lowering and his mouth opening as he gets down on his knees in front of me makes my cock jerk in his hand. When he looks back up at me, the pink tip of his fucking tongue swiping at that most sensitive part of me makes my nuts draw up tight.
My eyes roll back when he licks down the length of me, but it's the knowledge that I have never felt like this with any other partner in my life that almost makes me shove him away. This man is the only one who could get me to feel this way, and the familiarity of that is almost as terrifying as the reality that I know better than to be doing anything like this, especially with him.
The powerlessness I've always felt around him battles with the man inside me who hates that I like this so much.
He wins.
He always wins.
It's as if I lose any ability to tell this guy no when he's touching me.
I know how this ends. I know how angry I'll be with myself for my weakness toward him when it's over, but I do nothing to stop it.
Instead of shoving him away or demanding he take my cock out of his mouth, I tilt my head back, squeeze my eyes closed, and let myself settle into the way this guy has always had a mysterious ability to make me come.
Even as my balls draw up tight, the threat of my orgasm building at the base of my spine, I hate him.