Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
It takes everything I have not to thrust all the way in in one hard stroke. Instead, I go in slowly, letting her adjust to my size, even though the barbarian inside me howls in protest.
“Oh, fuck,” she breathes against my lips, her nails digging into my shoulders as I push in deeper. “Oh, holy fuck.”
Holy fuck is right. This is fucking sublime. By the time I bottom out inside her, we’re both panting and sweating—and it’s only the beginning. Pulling out, I slowly thrust back in as her nails dig deeper into my skin, and then… then I begin to fuck her in earnest, the barbarian unleashed.
By the time I come, she’s full-on screaming, and I’ve counted at least three orgasms if the squeezing of her inner muscles is anything to go by.
Spent and exhausted, I roll onto my side and gather her into my embrace, breathing in her apple and hibiscus scent mixed with the musk of sex.
It’s official.
I can’t wait to fucking do this again.
Chapter 9
Kendall
I wake up enveloped in strong arms.
What?
Oh, right. The X-rated events of the past evening—particularly all the toe-curling orgasms—flood my brain with NSFW images.
And holy crap. Despite the soreness that I feel from the epic encounter, I’m getting hot and bothered, again.
Oh, no. I wriggle out of the yummy arms and, careful not to jostle the bed too much, check my phone.
Shit. Tierre has sent everyone a bat emoji, followed by a police car light emoji, followed by SOS. He calls this “the bat signal,” but we call it “the batshit signal” behind his back. When this text arrives, everyone who works for Tierre is expected to drop everything and report to the shoot posthaste, or seek other employment.
What kind of emergency can there be at five-twenty in the morning?
The answer comes immediately.
Tony ate Milk.
If I were alone, I’d groan. Tony is the name of the white tiger, and Milk is—was—the name of the giant albino iguana. Everyone but Tierre saw this “emergency” coming a mile away, but Tierre claimed, and I quote: “Tony is a sweetheart. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Besides, he’s lactose intolerant.”
Yeah. Try to argue with that level of logic. Also—and most importantly—what can I do to help in this situation? I’m not an animal trainer, nor an animal funeral director, nor a medium who speaks to the ghosts of iguanas.
Still, I don’t really have a choice, so I furtively get up—because I see no reason to wake up Ash at this ungodly hour.
Yep. By sneaking out, I’m being considerate, and not cowardly… at all.
I’ll write him a note saying I had to go.
No. Better. A text later today.
Collecting the clothes I borrowed, I tiptoe all the way to the front door—only to bump into Sir Ems, who wags his tail at me with too much enthusiasm considering he’s not had his morning coffee yet.
“It was nice to meet you,” I whisper. “You’re officially my second favorite Ems in the whole wide world.”
He trots over and pokes my shin with his nose.
“Yeah.” I pat his head. “I’ll miss you too.”
With that, I sneak out, closing the door softly behind me, and rush to deal with the SOS.
* * *
When I reach the shoot, I’m tempted to rub my eyes.
Even if this were South Florida, I’d still say this is an obscene number of iguanas. There are green iguanas, brown iguanas, gray iguanas, pale yellow iguanas, eating iguanas, humping iguanas, but notably, not a single white one with pink eyes, like the late Milk, which is what Mr. Boss is screaming about.
“The noun for a collection of iguanas is a ‘mess,’” Catherine whispers to me conspiratorially. “I think it’s apropos to our current situation.”
Yep. It’s a mess. Everyone does their best not to look Tierre in the eye, except maybe the tiger, who’s eyeing the mess of iguanas like an all-you-can-eat buffet.
“You!” Tierre’s bejeweled finger jabs pointedly in my direction. “Is that a fashion statement?”
Shit. I’m dressed in Ash’s hoodie and sweatpants. “This is what I sleep in,” I say sheepishly. “When I got your text, I didn’t think there was time to change.”
He nods, as if what I said was in any way reasonable. “Do you have a solution?”
My throat is drier than the desert, which works out because when my heart jumps into it, it stays put in my body. “I’d use that one.” I point at the palest yellow iguana in the mess. “Then you can ‘pale it up’ in post-production.”
He wrinkles his nose.
“Or,” I quickly say, “if editing photos is unthinkable, we could cover the iguana in foundation and give it some sort of vampire contacts.”
Tierre’s eyes light up. “We’ll give him a makeover. The models too.”
“There you go.” I really hope he doesn’t make the models look like vampiric iguanas, but he probably will—and the fashion world will eat that up just as eagerly as everything else he excretes.