Total pages in book: 176
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Oh, God, the thought of those lips, that mouth, has me arching almost sinuously against the bench, rocking forward on my pelvis.
“Yes, show me yours, Carson,” I announce to the empty room before turning back to my little imaginary funfest with all the finesse of a kid in the quest for a cookie.
What are you doing, Fee? I imagine him saying. How many of those have you had? he’d say, glancing down at my glass.
No. No. That doesn’t work for me. I haven’t had enough to drink, because if I had, I wouldn’t be sliding up the hem of my dress in my empty bedroom. Because he’d be here doing it for me.
Don’t you look dapper, I begin again, imagining sliding my hand down his lapel, drawn not by the feel of it but by the solid frame of him beneath.
And you, as always, look incredible, Fiadh. I love it when he says my name in that smoky way of his.
“Yes, yes, I do,” I whisper. “and I’m all silky smooth just waiting for you.” And hot, I find, as I cup my hand between my legs, holding myself.
We could get into a lot of trouble, he’d say with a soft chuckle as he’d twist his glass, acting a little coy while pretending to examine the contents. Then he’d lift it to his mouth, and I’d become a little hot and bothered watching the way his neck moves as he swallows.
I imagine placing my lips there. My tongue. Follow the motion of the muscle, licking the hollow of his throat.
Maybe I’m looking for trouble, I’d say.
And you think I’m it?
I haven’t quite made up my mind. And that would be a lie, the kind of lie I tell myself as I press a finger over the thin fabric of my underwear, teasing myself just a little harder. But you haven’t laid it on me yet, and you know you want to. So, hit me with your best pickup line.
And then I’d wait. I’d watch. Resist the urge to squirm, probably feeling equal amounts of hot and reckless. But then he’d crook a finger, oh so deliberately, beckoning me forward. I’d lean in, bringing my ear almost to his mouth as something hot and sweet would bloom deep inside me.
“Yes, just like it is now.”
Music would continue to play, voices around us would be loud, the words indistinct. I’d try not to tremble as his breath would blow against my neck. Try and fail miserably.
See how I made you come with one finger, his low voice would say. Imagine how proficient the rest of me is.
“Oh, God.”
I close my eyes and lean back on my hand, my hand pressed hard between my legs. I haven’t orgasmed since him. I haven’t wanted to. I’ve been too sad, but Christ do I need to now as I rotate my palm, a ragged sigh pulled from the depths of me as I hold and squeeze, imagining my hand as his. The air-conditioning turns over, the press of cool air making the loose strands of my hair dance against my shoulders. It reminds me of his thumb’s caress at the dinner table, the ache of having him so near.
‘I want . . . ” So much that I can barely breathe as I rock against my own hand, recalling the heft and heat of him, imagining how, if he were here, he’d separate me from my clothes like a hot knife through butter.
I trail my fingers upwards, sliding them under the elastic. I’m so wet already, I think as I paint the aching knot of my clit in my own arousal. The first brush makes me twitch, the second I imagine as his hand sliding into the depths of me.
I splay my legs, my body an impossible arch as my fingers dip and swirl. I tighten my eyes as I see him before me on his knees, his tongue taking, his lips sucking, his voice thick. How he’d watch me, his eyes dark, his mouth delivering dirty rasping compliments in between kisses and licks. His hair would be so silky in my fingertips, the dark thatch of it stark against my skin.
“Oh, Jesus!” My thighs jolt, my abs drawing tight as I reach that point where there’s no going back. There’s only me, my hand, my memories, and the phantom of the man driving me towards climax.
Sweet, sweet girl. Fuck my fingers. Fuck them hard.
I rock into my hand, the images his words invoke pushing me over that blinding hot edge as I cry out his name.
The room is silent but for the sound of my breath and the soft snap of elastic as I remove my hand. I collapse forward, my eyes fluttering open to the view of my prettily painted toenails. It takes my brain a moment to compute the pair of dark brogues planted between them. But it catches up pretty darned quick as an angry deep voice rasps,