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)
I hate the fact that even after all this time, this one man is the only one who has ever made me feel this way. I've tried to forget him, tried to forget the way my body responds to him. I've had other lovers in the years since him, but none of them ever compared.
I hate every single second of it, but I hold off, trapping my orgasm in my body for as long as I possibly can because I want it to last forever.
If I can hold off, if I can keep from coming, then I don't have to face the aftermath. I don't have to live inside my head, hating myself for being so fucking susceptible to the defeat I know I'm going to struggle with after it's done.
I clench my fists tight, my only armor against gripping his hair and pulling his mouth further down my cock.
My resistance snaps, my balls on the edge of busting, and I finally give in to the urge.
I come, my body shaking with the effort. Before I can clamp my lips closed, I grunt my satisfaction, and to my own ears it sounds like a bomb going off.
I swat away his hands when he stands and works to get my cock back into my jeans.
"I've got it," I mutter, my eyes on my clothes rather than on him.
"I fucking love that sound," he says, sounding a little drunk, even though I was the one who came and not him.
Maybe one of the reasons I've always enjoyed this shit with him is the pure joy in his eyes, even when he's the one giving.
"Got it out of your system?" I snap, finally looking at him. Once again, I want to kick him in the fucking knees so he drops a little and I don't have to look up at him, despite it only being an inch or two.
He shrugs, a Cheshire grin on his face as if he's won some internal battle I'm not privy to.
"We'll see, I guess," he says before walking away.
Let the self-hatred begin.
Chapter 7
Zayne
What happened yesterday didn't work.
I have no clue how long it'll take my hopeful ass to learn that 'getting something out of my system' never works.
Despite showering and brushing my teeth twice, I swear I can still taste him on my lips. Part of me hates myself for doing it, and another part of me keeps licking my lips to seek out that part of him.
This man is like a toxin that lurks in my blood. The time between us doesn't matter at all. The ache for him has always been right under the surface, and being near him drains me in a way that makes me wish I could just walk away and retire to some place where I would never see another human face again.
I've always found him in everything. The way the wind blows a stranger's hair makes me do a double take, hope filling my lungs on the off chance that it could be him. Cologne on another man's skin will stop me in my tracks, hopefulness building inside of me that he's the one I'm passing on the street, only to be disappointed over and over again when an unfamiliar face glances my way.
The way he's staring straight ahead, hands in a death grip on the steering wheel of this shitty moving truck as if he's wishing he were anywhere else in the world but stuck in this box with me, makes my skin crawl.
Hatred from the one man with whom I've allowed myself to fantasize about building a future with is the worst kind of torture.
I can't let myself get lost in the idea that there may be something between us. Franklin Jenkins is and always will be a man who likes my mouth on his cock, but will never be the man who sees me as anything more than a way to get off.
I was always his dirty little secret, the thing he reached for in the dark but would never give a second glance once his balls were empty. He's consistent. I'll give him that.
I was a fool to think that things would be different from any other time I got on my knees for him.
The problem with secrets is that they never stay veiled in the shadows, especially when witnessed by others.
I knew there were other people in the house yesterday, and maybe that's why I did what I did. Maybe, subconsciously, I wanted a witness to what we shared so that just once I could know he wasn’t just a figment of my imagination, something I drummed up in a fantasy that would never see the light of day.
A stronger man would just let it go. They would move on and accept that an orgasm is all that someone is looking for, and there's no deeper need or desire for anything more.