Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
“Someone’s going to have to clean this counter,” he growls, voice low and rough.
“Maybe we should get it dirtier first,” I reply, tugging his waistband down. “More efficient, right?”
Jack laughs, but it’s cut short as I reach in and wrap my hand around his cock, already hard and hot. Oh my god, he’s big and stiff, so thick that I can hardly get my fingers to touch around the diameter. He groans, kissing me harder, and the world narrows to this: the cool stone under my thighs, his big body pressed against mine, the sun slicing across the countertop and catching the glint of sweat on his temple.
But my pleasure is always important to Jack. The alpha male pulls back for an instant, his fingers grazing over my inner thigh, and then slides two fingers inside me, hot and wet. I gasp, clinging to his shoulders for balance.
“Fuck baby,” he mutters in my ear. “You’re always drenched.”
“I know,” I whisper in a panting voice, clinging to his shoulders. “I need you, Jack. Now, please!”
Jack growls deep in my chest. He’s learned my body already, knows exactly how to touch me, how to make me forget everything else. I’m wet, hungry, and he pulls his fingers out, before lining that big dick up at my little hole. Then, when he thrusts into me, I bite his shoulder to keep from screaming.
“Unnh,” is my low moan. “Ohhhh!”
“That a girl,” he rasps, going still to let me adjust to his massive size. “Fuck.”
Soon, I’ve started breathing again, and he fucks me slow, controlled, each stroke a master class in how to ruin a girl for anyone else. The edge of the counter digs into my ass, but I don’t care. I want it to hurt, want to feel him everywhere, want to remember this in every cell of my body.
“Jack,” I whimper, “mmm, harder.”
He obliges, gripping my hips and slamming me down onto his cock, the impact echoing off the tile. The plates rattle, the syrup bottle tips, but nothing matters except the fire building between us.
“Oh!” I squeal, clutching at his shoulders. “Oh Daddy, it’s coming—!”
I climax like a hurricane, clenching around him, the pleasure blinding. He holds me through it, lips on my neck, murmuring sweet, filthy things in my ear, but the insistent pulsing of my cunt is too much. His cock jerks once, hard, and then the shoot at the base begins to pulse. With a growl, he erupts, teeth scraping my jaw as he shudders inside me.
“Fuck!” he roars. “Ohhhh shit!”
We stay like that for a minute, breathing hard, bodies tangled and sticky with sweat and sugar. Around us, the kitchen table looks like an apocalyptic scene with plates pushed to the side, spilled syrup, and napkins askew.
“Worth the mess,” he says, grinning.
“Definitely,” I reply, licking his collarbone.
We shower together, and it’s somehow even more intimate than the sex. He soaps my back, I shampoo his hair, and we stand under the spray as the water runs over us. He squeezes my big breasts as I moan before fisting his cock, and we almost end up making love again, but somehow come out without another hot session.
After, we lounge on the couch, wrapped in huge robes and each other, watching bad movies and making up alternate endings. He lets me choose the first one (“Notting Hill,” obviously), and pretends not to like it, even though he laughs at all the right parts.
Around noon, my man gets a wild idea. “You ever made real pasta sauce?” he asks.
“From a jar?” I reply, and he groans in mock agony.
“No, like, actually from tomatoes and basil and all that shit. The good stuff.”
I shake my head, and he pulls me off the couch, leads me to the kitchen, and lines up the ingredients like we’re prepping for a military op.
He talks me through every step: the garlic, the olive oil, the way you have to crush the tomatoes by hand (“It’s messy, but worth it.”) We’re halfway through when I squish a tomato too hard and it explodes all over my chest, leaving a bright red splotch on Jack’s shirt that I borrowed.
He laughs, then licks a drop off my collarbone, slow and deliberate.
“Oops,” I whisper, already vibrating with need.
Jack smiles deviously. “Leave it. I like you like this.”
Then, he pins me against the fridge, kissing me until my knees go weak. His hands are under the shirt again, squeezing my big tits, the cold juice making my nipples pebble.
“Should we finish the sauce?” I pant.
He shakes his head. “It’ll simmer.”
We’re on the dining table this time, Jack lifting me onto the wood surface with one hand, the other already yanking my shirt open. I’m naked underneath, with my big tits trembling and pussy already wet. His eyes devour me.
“You’re so fucking beautiful, Eliza,” he says, voice ragged.