Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 129427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
It was petty of me, in light of the very serious situation I was in, but I really couldn’t get over the fact that he didn’t remember me. I’d spent six long, frustrating years trying to find someone who excited me half as much as he had. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t imagined him doing the same thing, never able to forget me. The worst part of it was that he still got to me. Just thinking about him brought prickles out all over my skin. It always had, and probably would even after he fired me. It was incredibly unfair.
I didn’t want Neil. I wanted Leif, the charming English stranger in the airport. I still wanted him, and probably would forever.
My body throbbed, like it always did when I remembered that night. I pressed my thighs together for just a second before I slipped my hand between them.
“What do you want?” he asked me in my memory, his lips brushing my ear as he pressed me against the wall of that hotel room. My answer was always pathetically embarrassing in hindsight. I’d only had sex with two other people before him, and it hadn’t been anything to write home about. I’d thought of the kinkiest thing I could imagine, and shyly stammered, “Um... you could... spank me? Maybe?”
Cringe-worthy, I know, but I couldn’t change the past. My fingers rolled over my flesh beneath the steaming water, and I sighed, my eyes drifting closed.
He’d smiled, and I couldn’t tell if he was making fun of me or not, I still couldn’t, even in my own fantasy. “If that’s what you want.”
I could smell his cologne, see him unbuttoning the sleeves of his gray-blue chamois shirt. He’d been wearing a faded David Bowie tour shirt beneath it. It was like he’d sprung fully-formed from my eighteen-year-old fantasies, the hot History teacher who just couldn’t help himself.
That thought opened my eyes. Man, had my daddy issues been that bad?
Does it matter now? I asked myself, my fingers resuming their busy work beneath the bubbles. I took a shuddering, shaking breath. I could practically feel the crisp white duvet beneath my cheek as I relived lying across his lap, clad only in my cotton thong. I’d wished for black lace back then, but only because I hadn’t realized the almost painful eroticism of white cotton to men.
“Have you ever done this before?” he’d asked softly, his palm making slow circles over my backside.
I’d shaken my head, feeling embarrassed by my request and by how wet I’d already been, how incredibly aroused he’d made me during the cab ride over, and in the elevator, and...
I shifted my legs, slipping down further in the water. Oh, we’d discussed the rules back then, but I didn’t need rules in my bathtub. My blood pounded, remembering that first hard smack; the shocking sound of it echoing off the walls, the stinging pain that had taken a moment to really set in. He’d soothed it nearly away with the same hand that had delivered the blow, then another had landed, and another. Each time, I’d worried I wouldn’t be able to take the next. Would he think I was silly or stupid for calling the game off?
His long fingers had skated beneath my thong, pulling it up tighter against my aching pussy before slipping it down to my knees. Then another hard slap to my ass, and his fingers were inside me, two of them, roughly plunging in and pulling out. I had been so ready, wetter than I’d ever been, my mind consumed with a steady chorus of pleas to just get on with it and fuck me, already. Maybe if I had known how long he would make me wait, I would have given up. But I’d taken every shocking contact between his hand and my backside, until my skin had been aflame and I was sure I wouldn’t be able to sit down on the long flight the next morning.
The tight, hot spiral I was so familiar with now gripped my pelvis, and I picked up the pace, remembering how slow and measured his breathing had seemed in contrast to my desperate panting. He’d spread my own juices around my folds, stroking up, circling the untried opening between my cheeks. I’d pushed up on my elbows, about to protest out of modesty more than distaste, when another searing blow landed. In its wake the tip of his thumb slipped into my ass, and I hadn’t been of a mind to argue with him anymore.
I remember one desperate cry, “Please!” and I echoed it to myself now, twisting closer and closer to the edge. He’d made me come then, his thumb in my ass, two fingers in my grasping cunt, the other two working over my hard clit until I’d exploded. Just like I exploded in the tub, my legs quivering and jerking, bath water sloshing onto the floor.