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)
“Hold on,” I murmur, spreading her legs, one palm splayed at the small of her back, the other guiding me inside. “There you go—”
I push in slow, the kind of slow that makes us both swear, and then we’re locked—her heels digging into me, my forehead pressed to hers, both of us trying to remember how to breathe.
“God,” she whispers, eyes glassy, smug smile tugging at her lips.
She tips her hips, and it’s game over; I find a rhythm—deep and deliberate—until she starts to pulse around me and beg for faster. I oblige, bracing one hand beside her head, the other hooking behind her knee to open her up for me.
“I’m gonna love fucking you in this house.” Another thrust, deeper. “On this dresser.” I tip my chin at the bed. “Against the closet door with your hands over your head. Bent over the boxes you haven’t unpacked, fucking you from behind. On the rug.”
She shivers so hard the cologne bottles rattle again. “Keep talking.”
“In the bathroom.” I kiss her throat, her mouth. “In the shower, your moans echoing against the tile. I’ll put you against the wall, soap on your skin, my mouth everywhere the water can’t reach.”
Fucking you good and hard . . .
Her nails sink into my shoulders; she’s panting now, greedy. “Yesss . . .”
“In the closet,” I promise, rolling my hips just right. I nip her lip. “Every room. Every surface.”
“Mmm,” she moans.
Suddenly, I want to watch her watching us.
“Field trip.” I hoist her again, carrying her toward the walk-in closet with built-in shelves. An island in the middle. Bench in front of the window.
A full-length mirror along the back wall . . .
I position us so we’re facing the mirror, her hands pressed against the glass, positioning myself behind her. She braces, gasping loudly as I spoon her from behind, kiss the back of her neck, and slide into her in one long, claiming stroke. The reflection gives us everything: her hair a mess, her cheeks flushed, the lazy swing of the chandelier above us, my hands spanning her waist so I can bury deeper still . . .
Our skin glistens.
“Look at you,” I rasp in her ear. “Look at how gorgeous you are.”
Those tits. I drag my thumb over her nipple and pinch, a shocked, breathy sound leaving her mouth as her gaze locks on the mirror.
Her gaze stays locked on the glass like it’s a live feed of her undoing, and I set a rhythm—deep and deliberate—one hand climbing so it’s at her throat, thumb lazy at her pulse.
“Harder,” she begs.
“Ask nicely.” I grind where she needs it just to feel her shiver.
“Please.”
I give it to her.
The mirror shows us everything: the sharp lift of her breasts when I drive in, the way they bounce when I snap my hips, the insatiable way she rocks against my cock for more.
I cup her tits and tease a thumb over a tight peak, and her knees wobble.
“That’s it,” I whisper, holding her up. “Good girl—keep your eyes on us.”
She does, biting her lip, wrecked and triumphant. “God, Hayes . . .”
I’m gonna jizz. I can feel my balls tightening as the sound of our bodies slapping together fills the closet, our eyes meeting in the reflection.
Layla’s lips part in an almost pained expression when she comes; I bury my face at her neck, and we fall apart together.
Chapter 40
Layla
Sunday night . . .
It’s warm.
The air is warm, thick with the smell of grilled hot dogs and spilled soda. The bleachers vibrate under my feet, the crowd alive with chatter and bursts of cheers. I fan myself with the crumpled program, wishing I hadn’t worn a damn sweatshirt.
Then again, what the hell do I know about football games?
Benny doesn’t notice my fidgeting.
She’s too busy leaning forward, elbows braced on her knees, eyes laser focused on the field because she was practically born in these stands. She’s got her hair up in a ponytail, a soda at her feet, and a running commentary ready for my benefit.
“Okay,” she starts, turning to me with that know-it-all sparkle only a nine-year-old can pull off. “See those guys in the huddle? That’s the offensive line. They’re basically Dad’s bodyguards. If they don’t do their job, he’s toast.”
I squint toward the field, where a bunch of helmets bob in a tight circle. “They all look the same to me.”
“That’s because you don’t know what you’re looking for.” She grins. “Don’t worry, I’ll teach you.”
I laugh under my breath, because she’s serious. Dead serious. This is her world, not mine, and I can feel her excitement buzzing like static between us.
“Now,” she says, pointing. “See Dad? Number twenty-two? He plays running back. That means when the quarterback hands him the ball, he gets to run it as far as he can before someone tackles him.”