Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 83167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“Yeah, we do,” he agreed.
But he didn’t fuck me.
Not immediately.
He kissed me, hard, deep and for a long time.
Then he rolled me to my belly, positioned between my legs, shoved his knees deep underneath me so he was sitting back on his heels and pulled me back on his cock.
Taking him, my neck arched, I came up on my hands, and my powerhouse thrust into me.
Mo was feeling it at the same time feeling like making a seriously good memory of it, so he didn’t let me control it.
To do that, he had to stop the action to switch positions so he could fuck me in a variety of different ways.
But we ended with me back in his lap, face to face, my legs up his chest, Mo on his ass, his arms around me, driving me down on his cock.
And we were kissing.
Later, I fell asleep in his arms and the last thought I had was that I’d been right.
That night was the best.
But add the end of it?
It was living the dream.
So I didn’t get a Hot Bunch guy.
I got my Dream Man.
And the best of all of that…
My Dream Man got his Dream Girl.
Epilogue
“Not While I’m Around”
Lottie
I stood in my bathroom wearing some pink satin sleep pants with a cream, brown and pink striped waistband that made them look like girlie boxer shorts.
I wore nothing else.
I was staring at my breasts.
I’d had the surgery.
I’d also had the drama before the surgery.
It was same-day, even if I also got a lift to repair some of the stretch. And I was out of commission for only five days, though that was about not trying to do too much or lift anything too heavy.
The bummer was, I couldn’t dance for six weeks.
That said, the whole thing wasn’t that big of a deal.
However, I learned it was when I was going under the knife with Rock Chicks, Morrison Sisters, Hot Bunch and Commando Boys at my back.
But the worst was Mo.
You would think I’d had heart surgery.
There had been a standoff the day before I was scheduled to go to the hospital.
Although everyone agreed Mo would drive me and take me home, the around-the-clock care I did not need after all was said and done was hotly contested.
As they discussed the schedule of who would make me chicken soup, change my dressings, grocery shop and clean my house, somehow, the conversation took a turn for the worse with Morrison Sisters wanting to prove to Rock Chicks that I was one of them and Hot Bunch and Commando Boys jockeying for position as the favored brothers-not-of-the-blood in my life.
Though, for me, I would have paid to see any of those men bringing me chicken soup or running my vacuum.
That said, I would be perfectly capable of doing the first on my own, and my vacuum could hold off for long enough I could wield it myself.
By the by, through this, Mom and Ingrid sat at my dining room table, drinking coffees Tex had sent over from Fortnum’s Used Books, where he was their premier barista, and chatting calmly like it wasn’t happening.
It ended with Mo shouting (shouting! until that moment I’d never heard him shout), “None of you are gettin’ anywhere near my woman’s breasts! And I can and will feed and take care of Lottie. I got this. Back the fuck off!”
I learned then that when a big guy like Mo who was usually quiet and not easily ruffled bellowed, people listened.
I also learned then that there was family of a lot of different varieties.
But with that, Mo was claiming him and me (mostly me, obviously) as just ours.
I was sure he appreciated the love and support they were showing.
But in the end, it was just him and me.
They could bring flowers.
They could not bring me chicken soup.
In the ensuing days after the surgery, he took care of my incisions, changed my dressings, brought me food, ran the vacuum, got the mail, did the grocery shopping, wouldn’t hear of me doing any of this for myself, even if I could, and didn’t let me take that first peak at my breasts. Not until the volume had returned and the bruising had faded.
I’d had implants for a while, switching them out to freshen them up, because I looked great with big tits.
But now…
“Put a shirt on.”
I turned at these words to see my man hulking into the bathroom.
“Mo—”
He walked to me, tagged the lacy pink bralette I’d laid out on the counter and held it my way.
“Put this on,” he ordered.
My stomach plummeted, and I stared up at his gorgeous face.
“Do you like them?” I asked quietly.
He also stared down at my face.
“Of course I like ’em.”
“You’re not even looking at them,” I pointed out.
His eyes dropped to them then came back to my face.