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)
“You know people will lose their shit, right?” I say in a low tone. “That’s a huge fantasy for like half of my customers online. They want to see me handling a live dick, and yours is massive.”
Jack’s eyes gleam. “All the better. Let’s give them something to talk about.”
I laugh, wild and real, the kind of laugh that usually makes people stare. But Jack just grins, then reaches for the lube, and the next thing I know, he’s hard again, pinning me to the bed with a weight that’s both safe and thrilling.
This time, he’s in charge. He flips me onto my stomach, his hand flat on my lower back, the other curling around my hair. He’s not rough, but he’s in command, and I melt for it.
He slides into my sweltering cunt, slower than before, and every inch is an electric ache. He talks to me, voice low, almost a growl, narrating what he’s doing, what he wants. “You’re so fucking tight,” he says. “You know how many men wish they could be here with you like this? But I’m the lucky man.”
He reaches for the phone, holds it in his left hand, aiming it down my back so the camera can see the way he’s splitting me open. It should feel like a stunt, but it doesn’t. It feels like a revelation, and I even reach my hands in back to pull my butt cheeks apart, showing off exactly where he penetrates me.
“Smile for the camera, sweetheart,” he growls.
I turn my head a bit, blonde hair wild in my eyes, and give the lens a look that’s half coquettish, half seductive. I’m not acting. I’m alive, in every nerve ending, in every cell.
“Come get it, big boy,” I coo. “Slam my pussy with that big dick. You know I love it, and my pussy feels soooo good like this.”
Jack groans and fucks me, deep and measured, then harder. He uses his hand to spank me, once, and I yelp, but it only makes me hotter. He pushes my face down into the pillow, then lifts me up by the hair, turning my head so the camera can see my open mouth, my gasps.
He comes with a sound that’s almost a roar, then slumps over me, dropping the phone to the sheets.
“Fuck,” he bites out.
“Mmmm,” I moan blissfully, completely sated in the arms of this man. “Ohhhh.”
After a minute, he rolls me over, kisses me, and says, “We’re going to break the fucking internet, you know that? With these new gonzo shots.”
I kiss him back, already imagining the comments, the tips, the endless, greedy flood of viewers. But I don’t care about them, not really. I care about this: the way he looks at me, the way I look back, the way it’s not a performance anymore. It’s real. It’s us.
We fall asleep, the phone cast aside as our naked bodies tangle, our hearts beating in sync.
By morning, I’m still nude, still sore, still hungry for more.
Jack brings me coffee in bed, sets it on the nightstand, and climbs back under the sheets with me.
“So,” I say, purring like a cat. “You’re really okay with this? Being seen on-line?”
He nods. “With you, I can handle anything. Even infamy.”
I smile, because I believe it.
Maybe this is love. Maybe it’s madness.
But whatever it is, it’s ours.
16
CHAPTER 16 – LIGHTS, CAMERA, ACTION!
Eliza
Ihate roasting chicken almost as much as I hate waiting for the timer to go off. There’s something about the uncertainty—will it be raw? Will it be dry?—that makes me run endless anxious laps between the oven, the sink, and the kitchen island. At Jack’s house (technically now “our” house, but he still calls it “my place” by accident sometimes), the kitchen is an arena of polished surfaces: quartz countertops, and those fancy cabinets that you only see in design magazines and Instagram. The effect is equal parts intimidating and homey, which is pretty much how I feel in my own skin lately.
Tonight is my idea. “Let’s have friends over. Celebrate the move-in, the new job, the, uh, new side business.” I say it with a wink because the “side business” is the elephant in every room, even if we keep it out of sight in the guest bedroom closet—tripod, ring lights, a rolling case that says “music equipment” in case anyone snoops.
I baste the chicken again and glance at the clock. Forty minutes until Tara and Jeremy are due to arrive. My heart beats double-time, but I try to pass it off as culinary enthusiasm. In the dining room, Jack uncorks a bottle of pinot and sets the table with his best dishes—actual china, with a gold rim and a little fighter jet on the underside, a leftover from his bachelor years and a gift from some long-ago squadron mate.