Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 79020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
I scream once again, but the pain is merely a shadow left behind as pleasure takes over. I feel split in two just as I predicted I would, only the level of pleasure it brings is something I know I'll crave long after we're done.
"Shouldn't feel this fucking good," he snarls in my ear, his hips now pistoning, cock slamming into me so that the sound of skin hitting skin reverberates through the dark night.
The orgasm takes me by surprise, my inner walls clamping down on his cock and begging for more. He fucks me through it, all sane thoughts escaping on my cries of sheer pleasure. It feels endless, eternal, as if it could last forever, and when his cock thickens inside of me, asking my body for just a little more than it should be able to take, it's once again prolonged.
His grip on me tightens with every pulse of cock deep inside of me, and I have no doubt that when he pulls his fingers free of my hair, clumps of it will remain in his grip.
All I've done is stand here and take what he has to offer, but you wouldn't be able to convince my body of that. I feel drained, like I've run a marathon on nothing but a glass of water and a prayer.
I feel overwhelmed, the trembling in every muscle in my body showing no signs of slowing anytime soon.
I feel the warmth of his hands as he turns me to face him, smell the bodywash on his skin when he pulls me to him, his hands working to pull up my jeans.
The tips of my breasts scrape over his clothing as I'm jostled in his bid to get me dressed. I feel weightless, my head incapable of forming real thoughts.
I feel the helmet settle on my head, and I manage to climb on the back of the bike when he urges me to do so. I sense the rumble of the machine, the vibration sending me to a whole other plane.
Then I'm on my front stoop, his hands in my jeans pocket, the jingle of my keys as the door is unlocked.
Then the warmth of the room, the closing of the front door, and then silence.
It takes much longer than it should for me to come to my senses enough to realize that the man brought me home without even having to ask where I lived.
Just who the fuck is Owen Clark?
Chapter 11
Hemlock
I'm not a man who deals in regrets.
Shit happens, and although I can acknowledge that things could have turned out differently, I don't let shit like that bother me.
I can't recall a moment in my life where emotions made me reconsider an action I've taken. I have had shit go sideways, making me recalibrate and consider what could've been done differently to get the result I initially desired.
But regret? That's for sane people to deal with.
I also can't recall the last time I woke up with my cock aching so badly I have no other recourse than to grip the fucking thing in my fist.
I've never struggled to keep my body under control.
Sex has never been a factor that drives my needs. My control over other aspects of my mind has always made that part of me one of the easier things to manage.
Being around Zara is proving to have the ability to change shit, and I don't fucking like it.
I mean, last night was beyond fucking spectacular, and it pisses me off. She fucking pisses me off.
The quiet around her pisses me off despite every other cell in my body begging for the silence. I know what to do with the struggle. The absence of it at this point in my life is cause for concern. There's no alternate reality where I can just exist. Normal isn't something I've ever hoped for. Hope is for people who don't know any better. Hope is for people who believe in shit that isn't real. It's how people explain all the good and all the bad, taking away free choice and leaving it all to chance.
Hope is absolute bullshit.
Needing to find my restraint, I release my aching cock and manage a shower without touching the fucking thing. My jeans abrade my skin when I pull them on, my length only subsiding a fraction.
As I walk down the hall and take the stairs to the main floor, my irritation grows.
It's too fucking early for death metal, but that hasn't stopped Jericho from blasting the shit through the house.
I bark out a command for the fucking smart device to lower the volume as I cross the kitchen and set to making a fucking cup of coffee.
"You seem more on edge than normal this morning."
I lift my right hand, K-Cup in my grip, and throw up a middle finger.