Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 69910 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69910 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
“Good.” She rakes her hands through my hair again and grasps my shoulders tightly. Her heels make a renewed effort to grasp my ass. “So good,” she moans.
She looks wrecked like this, and I love it. I know if she opened her eyes, I’d look the same. I’d look wrecked for her because I am. I’m also right on the edge. It’s a product of the blue balls from last night, but it’s also a product of how much I’ve wanted her…and for how long. Those find-out and fuck-around graphs—it’s pretty much the same concept. I only ever believed I’d make her life better, give her all her dreams, and atone for the choice I made to stay away. I know it wasn’t all me, but it didn’t change the level of guilt or what I wanted to accomplish once I had money. I just never imagined she’d want me back. Dreamed? Yes, absolutely. But those dreams felt like an impossibility.
“Beautiful.” I stroke her cheekbone. “You’re beautiful, Patience.” I fuck her harder, and she clings to me harder too. Her breasts bounce prettily in her little top, her nipples visible through the fabric I reduced to sheer.
Then, her face changes, and I can feel how she goes still in that inner way, even though she’s still moving through it. She grasps me tight with her hands, her hips, her heels, and her walls around my dick, and I’m done.
She’s done too. I can feel her coming. Gah, that sounds so silly. She’s not coming. She’s finding something amazing and life-changing, and she’s dying a little and going wild and tumbling straight into the abyss of pleasure.
“Apollo…” She moans my name when she doesn’t say anything at all, and that’s what pushes me over.
I come inside her, and it doesn’t stop. It feels like I’m coming forever. I can’t stop even if I try because I can feel her clenching around me over and over again, and it makes me want to keep coming and coming. We’re both coming and coming and spasming and rocking and shaking and dying a little. I know this is possible because of my balls, but I seriously think it’s coming from somewhere else because there’s no way it should last this long. I feel like I’m coming from the tips of my fingers, the top of my head, and the soles of my feet.
I open my eyes a few seconds later because I want to watch her come down. I want to watch all that bliss and pleasure moving over her face. I want to—
My phone is on the counter right beside Patience.
And when it suddenly goes off, it’s jarring and awful.
She shrieks.
I shriek.
I fumble for it, still inside her, and we’re both still wild and not nearly on the downward trend of sweet afterglow yet. I just want to shut the thing off and maybe pitch it into a corner, never to be found again, but the name on the screen stops me.
I put it to my ear. This is one call I can’t miss, even if it’s just an update. But it’s not. This guy doesn’t mess around.
“We found her.” Nelson DeBandry’s deep voice spills into my ear. “We found Genevieve Jonesboro.”
CHAPTER 18
Patience
There’s no point in saying I’ve thought about my mom more times than I can count. It’s been endless over the years. Thoughts that number more than the stars. Even the thoughts I haven’t consciously thought of have been about her.
She’s still an older version of me as she walks through the front door, more so now than when I was a kid because I’m presently a grown woman. All I had was a photo album of pictures. I think Dad organized them all into one album for me, which I guess he was gracious enough to do even though he got that restraining order. Maybe it was a guilt project. I had some of my mom’s photos of her as a baby, her as a young girl, her as a teenager, and then way more of my parents together and ones with me in them. I knew what she looked like years ago. Just in case my memory ever started to fade, I’d refresh it with those photos. I used to spend hours and hours with that album.
The moment my mom steps through the curved wooden door, that’s the first thing I notice. How much she still looks the same. I’m blown away that her light blonde hair is still the same wheat color. I know it’s probably impossible that it’s not dyed, but whoever did it made it look just like her old shade—the shade I could never, ever forget, even if I didn’t have the album. Her eyes are still the same light green, with the darker spokes flooding her irises.