Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
I grind deeper, deeper, until my pelvis is flush to hers and she makes a sobbing sound in her throat.
Bang, bang . . .
The headboard continues hitting the wall, and for the briefest moment I worry it might wake my daughter, but I lose the fight against Layla’s tight, wet pussy . . .
I want to live inside her.
I want to fuck her again and again, and I haven’t even come yet. Caught up in the sensation of her heat, I could literally fucking cry, it feels so good.
I brace a hand against the headboard to quiet it, the other sliding under her knee to hitch it higher, my nose nuzzling in the crook of her neck.
She trembles. Thighs shake. The mattress dips, molded to her body, moving along with us.
“Layla, I’m gonna come,” I grind out.
A tiny nod. Hands pull at my ass, pulling me closer.
“Yes,” she pants, breath hot in my ear. “Come inside me.”
“Gonna fill you up,” I groan into her neck. “You want it?”
“Oh God yes, I want it,” she moans, nails biting into my ass. “Make me come.”
I angle and hit that spot; her eyes fly open, mouth falling into a soft curse.
“There,” she gasps again. “Right there—oh s-shit . . .”
“I’ve got you.” My voice rips out of me. “Come on my cock.”
Buried to the hilt, I thrust and thrust and thrust her through a release, mine hitting at the same time, white, savage heat that empties every thought I’ve got in my brain.
I spill for what feels like forever, kissing the little cries she tries to muffle.
My body jerks. Shivers.
When the nerve endings finally ebb, breathing now in check, I ease out of her, thick and tender. Sensitive.
“Holy shit,” I breathe. Another twitch steals through me, and in the dim light, I catch her smile. “That felt great.”
Layla laughs. “It did.” She pauses. “I should clean up.”
I nod. “I’m gonna check on Benny—then I’m coming back and doing it again.”
Layla’s already easing off the bed, keeping her legs together as she shimmies to the bathroom door and flips on the light.
I hesitate, admiring her naked body, the curve of her hips. The faint crescent marks my hands left on her thighs. She glances back over her shoulder, mouth tilting.
“Stop staring and go be a dad.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I give her ass a quick, teasing slap that earns me a surprised yelp, and pad into the hallway.
I grin, happy for the first time in ages.
Chapter 22
Layla
We barely slept at all.
Every time I drifted, he’d breathe against my neck and the hand resting on my boob would feel me up, and that greedy dick would get hard again—what’s a girl to do but roll her hips so he’d wake up, and suddenly we’d be having sex again.
My thighs ache in a way that makes me feel smug. Alive.
I count the orgasms in my head, beginning with his head between my legs: One. Two. Four.
Beside me Hayes lies on his back, one arm flung over his eyes, mouth curved into a satisfied smile, and I wonder if he’s sleeping or awake.
“Good morning,” I murmur into his shoulder, kissing his warm flesh.
He groans. “Morning.” He moves his arm, cracking his eyes, bending his arm to check the watch encircling his wrist. “Seven o’clock.”
“Ugh.” So early?
He drags his palm over my stomach, thumb brushing the underside of my breast because we’ve already established that he loves my boobs. A lot.
Goose bumps cover my flesh when he murmurs, “You sore?”
I nod, rolling toward him. “In the best way.”
“Want me to make it better with a little bit of vitamin D?” he counters, tugging me closer. His morning wood nudges my calf, needy as a golden retriever. “It’ll only take me three minutes.”
That makes me laugh. “Wow. What a lucky girl I am.”
Before he can negotiate for four, a sound from somewhere in the house has him pulling away. A door. Feet.
“Or not.” He swears softly, affectionate. “Anddd that’s my cue.”
“Dad duty,” I say, trying to sound breezy and not like a person whose heart is currently beating out of her chest. “Go be a hero.”
He kisses my forehead—a sweet, unguarded press that hits too deep—and swings out of bed. He yanks on his sweatpants and a tee, gives me one backward look that’s a promise and a question and a thousand things I’m not ready to name, then pads into the hall.
I grin into the sheets. Exhale.
The grin slides away. A thought, clear and cold as a lake, floats up and sits on my chest: I need to leave.
It’s not that I don’t want to stay. It’s that I do. Way, way too much.
The wanting—I’ve always been good at ignoring it. Pushing it down until it evaporates. But he makes it easy to want. Easy in a way that feels dangerous for my heart.