Total pages in book: 244
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Wow. That’s a twist I didn’t see coming. And frankly, I don’t care for it.
“I return to New York on Friday,” he continues, his tone heavy, then business-like as he explains that 24News will cover the lease.
But my head pounds.
My ears ring.
TJ is leaving.
I knew he’d go eventually, but I didn’t think too hard about what that might feel like. Now, the idea consumes me. And it’s like a bowling ball, dropping in my gut.
I desperately want him to stay. My chest actually aches at the prospect of opening the door to the flat and seeing . . . some random person.
That seems horribly wrong.
“Would you stay and write your novel?” I ask, a note of wild hope in my voice.
But the question lands like a thud on the table. He doesn’t even have to answer me.
I know what he’s going to say.
He can’t stay to write a book. We aren’t rich. We live hand-to-mouth. He’s not independently wealthy. He’s young and scrappy like me. He lives paycheck to paycheck.
TJ shakes his head. “I can’t, Jude,” he says, then he gets up, comes around to my side, slides an arm around my shoulder.
He buries his face in my neck, the prickle of his beard chasing the ache in my chest away, soothing it until my bones start to hum.
He kisses my jawline, the corner of my lips, my cheek. His kisses are a little sad, a lot poignant. “But what if we make the most of the next four days?”
On Wednesday night, making the most of it looks like this.
I’m kneeling on the floor of the living room, indulging in my favorite treat.
TJ’s cock.
We’re setting records. Since Monday night, it’s been nonstop. Plenty of sex, lots of blow jobs, a handful of hand jobs, and some dick-to-dick action, when I learn something new about myself—that becomes my new guilty pleasure, and I don’t even know why, it just works spectacularly well with TJ, and I tell him as much when we’re naked and grinding together.
We’ve done other things too. A few beers in Chelsea, a music club in Leicester Square to see a Brit-pop band TJ wouldn’t stop telling me about, then an at-home reading of the best lines from The Importance of Being Earnest before we shagged last night.
And now this. Blowing TJ is the sexual equivalent of unlocking the man who takes so long to share anything. It’s the antithesis of all the secrets he keeps. When I have him in my mouth, he is helpless, and he is vocal.
With his legs spread and his head thrown back, he ropes his hands through my hair. “Your mouth, Jude. Fuuuuck. Love your mouth. So fucking much.”
His praise inspires me to take him deeper, suck him harder. I swirl my tongue up and down his length, having a party with his dick.
But right when I have him pulsing in my throat, I relent, letting him fall out of my mouth.
I slide my hands up the coarse hair on his thighs, and he whimpers. “C’mon,” he says, gripping himself, offering his dick to me again. “It’s so fucking good.”
I lick the tip, teasing him, playing with the head, lapping up all those drops of arousal.
“Take me deeper, baby,” he pleads.
That’s what I wanted. I’ve never been one for pet names, but the way he says baby drives me wild. It’s so unlike him. It’s such a surprise. I don’t even think he’s aware he says it in the throes of passion.
He never says it outside of the bedroom.
But when we’re naked, when he’s undone, he doesn’t think. All the time he usually takes before he speaks vanishes. In bed, he babbles and grunts. He whispers and begs.
I savor all the things he says as I draw him back into my mouth, lavishing attention on his thick, hard shaft. Things like . . .
You.
You’re incredible.
Want you so much.
Want this.
Want us.
Those last two words send my mind to dangerous shores. To impossible futures. They remind me cruelly and beautifully that making the most of these four days isn’t only about sex.
I close my eyes, suck him deep, and revel in the taste of him. I like the pet names because I like him so fucking much.
So much that it feels like falling.
So much that I shove my hand into my boxer briefs, stroke my aching cock, and wish I could have him and us for longer. A lot longer.
“Jude, fuck, baby. That’s so hot. So fucking hot, we need to stop.”
Letting go, I pout. “Why do we need to stop?”
“Get up here.” He pats the couch, stretches out on his side, then tells me to fuck his face.
Well, what the gentleman wants . . .
A minute later, we’re tangled up together, my face between his thighs, his between mine.
We are loud and messy. Slurps and sucks fill the air and mix with his playlist of Brit-pop sex tunes that make me even hotter for him.