Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
The words are there, on the edge of my lips, so he pushes a little harder, sliding me down farther and he’s right there, and if I pushed and moved the right way, he would be in me. G-string and all.
His kisses pepper my neck, my jawline, and hands roam my back.
I’m marrying this man tomorrow. Whiskey will be my husband, and I want to fuck him. But the words won’t leave my mouth, and I’m glad they won’t, even if they are on the tip of my tongue.
“You taste like everything sweet. I remember the way you taste.” Whiskey pushes just a fraction. A gasp leaves my mouth. “Do you remember how I taste, Bunny? How my cock filled your mouth as you wrapped those sweet lips around it?” He pauses, sucks on my neck. “I do. Fuck, I do. You give the best head.” His words are hypnotizing me. I’m trying to break free, to not fall for them. But when his mouth covers mine, I open for him. He doesn’t take my kiss straight away, he simply tastes me, and I can taste him mixed in with the flour I poured all over him.
Damn. He’s using me.
Is this me using him as well?
I’m so confused.
Should I be having sex with my fake husband? The man who is also my blackmailer and using me in his big plan of revenge. Is this normal?
“Kiss me, Bunny.”
I do, my hands come up and grip his face as he holds me in place. His chest pushes against my breasts, holding me still. My lips part, and I take control of the kiss. He lets me. Whiskey pulls away from my entrance, and his cock comes to rub on my clit, up and down as our tongues dance a dance they’re familiar with.
I’ve never had this much passion or attraction for a man before.
Never wanted someone, and not wanted someone, all at the same time.
Our lips pull away, we both breathe heavily, then he pushes me against the wall. His hands leave my back, and they search my body. Roaming me as if he’s figuring me out.
My mind is telling me to stop this.
For god’s sake, don’t have sex with him.
But my body is screaming for relief.
Whiskey was the last man I slept with. I haven’t been with anybody since him, and I want him again. Very badly.
Pushing on his chest, I find he goes back with ease.
Face rigid, he looks up at me, long eyelashes with flour on them wait for me to speak.
Taking a few deep breaths, I stand and pull my skirt back down. I let my eyes drop to his chest, which is hard and all muscle and dusted with a smattering of hair. That perfect V he has showcases his cock ever so beautifully, like it’s ready to explore my vagina.
His cock’s so hard and angry and waiting for me to invite it in.
My vagina throbs at the thought.
I know I want him.
But should I do so? How do I keep my dignity intact?
I look back up at him. “If you want me, this isn’t the right way to have me,” I say.
I have to play a game as well. The same one he plays with me.
Deception.
“What’s the right way to make both our troubles”—he looks down at my pussy—“disappear.” My mouth opens. “I know you want me just as badly as I want you, rich girl. I can smell you.”
“You want to fuck me the day before our wedding?” I ask him.
Whiskey nods his head. “I don’t care what day it is. And yes, I want to fuck you.” He looks down. “It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”
My eyes follow his.
“I’ll hate you even more if we do this.”
“Get out,” he says, shaking his head and turning around in the shower.
I do as he says, stepping out and taking his towel with me.
Turning back to look at him, I see his head on the tiled wall as the water rushes over his back, washing the flour down the drain—and any hopes I had with it.
CHAPTER 22
WHISKEY
I know what game she’s playing at. That woman thinks she can change my viewpoint of her. Make me see her for more than what she really is—a rich girl who has had everything handed to her in this life. Well, she’s wrong.
I see her, and I’ve been playing way longer than she has.
Walking out, she’s sitting on the bed with her cell in hand.
“This house will be yours after the wedding. I’m going to my apartment,” I tell her my plan.
I have needs, and my future wife won’t meet them, no matter how much she teases me.
“What?” She looks at me, shocked. “You’re just leaving me in this house?” she questions.
“Yes. It will make things easier. My office is closer to my apartment anyways.”