Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 84250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
I grunt an embarrassing sound I don't have the wherewithal to focus on right now as I come.
Pulling from her feels like the most wicked combination of both heaven and hell.
Chapter 16
Claire
As quick as I am to tell women that they have every right to experience pleasure in any situation that is appropriate, it doesn't take long for the shame of what I've done to hit me square in the chest.
What self-respecting woman would be okay with getting dicked down in the backroom of a bar by her boss, no less?
"Fuck," he groans as he pulls out of me.
I know he came. His size made every throb of his orgasm very noticeable, but the man is still hard as a rock. Was it enough to get him off, but not enough to satisfy him?
"Excuse me," I say, pressing my hand flat against abs no man should ever have the right to own as I sit up.
As if he can't stop being a gentleman even in this moment, he reaches down and helps me sit up.
I resnap my bra, covering my breasts by pulling down the cups. I must look like a fool to have the damn thing all scrunched up under my chin.
I feel the heat of my embarrassment when I look down and realize just how noticeable it is that my bra doesn't even come close to matching the panties tangled up in my jeans clinging to my right ankle.
There was a time in my life when I made sure to match my underclothes, but these days it's more about what's clean and comfortable than anything else.
"So umm, yeah," I say as I struggle to get my left leg back into the other side of my jeans. I can't look up at him when he holds his arm out to help me balance. "Thanks."
"For the orgasms or the help?" he asks, a smugness in his tone that both thrills me and makes me angry.
"Both," I mutter because there's no denying how easily he played my body.
I manage to get my shoe back on without falling over and smacking my head on the wall in this too-tiny office.
"See you next week."
I rush from the back hallway and to the door, hating that I have to pause my escape in order to turn the deadbolt to get out of there.
A blast of cold air hits my face as soon as I step outside, but it honestly feels good from the humid air left in the office after we were done panting.
I shake my head, wishing I could make better life decisions, as I pull my car key from my pocket and unlock the driver's side door.
It takes three tries before my trembling hands can manage to get the key in the ignition, and then, as luck would have it, the engine doesn't start when I turn it.
I stare above the steering wheel, knowing I shouldn't be surprised because it's just my luck. Other than having an amazing daughter, it's just the way my life plays out.
I contemplate walking home, but it's cold and dark. I have too many responsibilities to risk what could happen on the way there.
I swallow my pride and go back into the bar.
I don't run into Walker heading out. Instead, I find him sitting at his desk chair with his head dropped into his hands. It's hard to witness his regret even though I feel it too.
"Hey," I say, hating the way he jolts because I startle him.
Just what the man needs, disappointment twice in one night.
"My car won't start. I know it's some sort of cable, and this happens often, but I don't know which one it is."
Instead of telling me to fuck off, he stands and follows me down the hallway, grabbing his coat off the hook at the end before following me outside.
I pop the hood for him, but he doesn't immediately step up to open the thing.
"Should I just take you home?"
I shake my head, declining the offer immediately. That would leave me with no car to pick Larkin up in the morning. It would make me have to ask another favor of someone else, and this is already hard enough.
With a frustrated sigh, he steps up and lifts the hood.
"It has something to do with the battery cable or something," I explain, once he's bent over the motor. "At least that's what the guy told me at the grocery store last week."
"This has happened before?" he asks, a hint of irritation in his tone.
"Yes," I answer, not going into full detail that it has happened more than once before. I imagine it would only piss him off more because I've somehow made it his problem now.
He cusses when his hand slips, and I hate the sight of blood on his knuckles when he pulls it up to inspect.