Total pages in book: 213
Estimated words: 201920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1010(@200wpm)___ 808(@250wpm)___ 673(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 201920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1010(@200wpm)___ 808(@250wpm)___ 673(@300wpm)
“Like you were before, Chloe Rose. I want to see you.”
Slowly, she picks up each of her heels, her pussy on full display, her center a dark, bright pink and glistening from arousal.
“Tell me you love me again.”
She brings her gaze to meet mine and licks her lips. “I love you,” she tells me like it’s obvious. Like it doesn’t change anything at all.
I have to practically crawl to her from where I’m sitting, but I don’t give a fuck.
I don’t need food; I don’t need sleep. I don’t need a damn thing, so long as she loves me.
With a single finger, I push on her inner knees and she instantly moves her legs farther apart for me. I trace her pussy, sending shivers through her body.
“So, does that mean you’re my girlfriend?” I ask her the question I wanted to so many years ago. If I hadn’t already been involved with Romano, heading down a path I knew she was too good for, I’d have asked her then. Shit, I’d have begged her to be mine.
The corners of her lips turn up as she smiles wide and beautifully. “Yeah,” she answers me in a single breath and I reward her by brushing the rough pad of my thumb over her swollen clit. Her sweet, soft moan makes precum leak from the slit of my cock and I can’t take it anymore.
She watches as I undress fast and recklessly, kicking the coffee table and almost spilling the food, but it doesn’t matter. None of that shit matters.
She spreads her legs farther as I climb on top of her, bracing my forearms on either side of her head and kissing her softly, gently and giving her every ounce of goodness, I have, even if it is so little.
“You still sore, Chlo?” I ask her as I push into her slick folds just enough to feel her tight cunt gripping my cock before pulling out.
With her neck arched back, her lips parted, and her eyes closed, she whimpers, “No.”
“Good,” I tell her, “’Cause tomorrow you’re going to be.” I slam into her all the way to the hilt in a swift, merciless stroke. Her sweet gasps fuel me to fuck her on the thin carpet until she doesn’t have a scream left in her.
CHLOE
“I loved coming here.” My mother’s voice is calm and sober, which is at odds with the noise of the bottles clinking and everyone talking in the bar. It sounds like everyone’s talking at once and over each other. The billiard balls collide on the break and the sound of a new game starting draws my attention briefly. The television’s on with a football game and some of the guys cheer a player on, but he the whole bar voices its dismay as he’s quickly tackled.
I recognize a few faces, one of them Carter’s dad as he orders a drink.
“That man’s going soon.” My mother’s voice catches my attention. Goosebumps flow over my skin; she’s so close to me. A thin, sickly smile is on her lips. She nods, not taking her gaze away from the far end of the bar as we sit on two stools next to each other.
I look back to the man I recognize and ask, “Mr. Cross?”
“No, no, baby girl,” my mother tsks me, “the bartender.”
Dave.
Ice flows over my skin as my mom laughs at my reaction. Fifth on the list.
The billiard balls clack noisily, and the bar carries on like nothing’s happening. Like they can’t even see us.
Sharp nails dig into my shoulder as my mom comes closer to me, whispering in my ear and making my body stiffen.
“I used to fuck him at the end of the night,” she tells me with her smile growing. “He’d clear my tab in return, although sometimes he just wanted me to suck him off like a whore.”
My words fail me and I struggle to breathe or to know what to say. It’s only a dream.
“Yeah, yeah, baby girl. But that doesn’t make it any less true,” my mom tells me before letting go and sitting upright in her seat.
I swallow the tight knot in my throat and peek up at her.
“Just because you’re dreaming doesn’t mean shit.” The smile fades and she stares at the bartender as he pours a glass of some clear liquor for Mr. Cross.
The music seems to die down, everything except my mother’s voice turning to white noise.
“At one point, I thought he loved me,” my mom tells me, staring down at the drink on the bar.
It takes me a moment to realize the smudge on the glass is blood. My gaze darts to her hand, to the broken nails and the bruises on her wrist.
My heart pounds, the anxiety and fear rising as her voice hardens and she picks up the drink. “Men don’t love, Chloe.” She sets the glass against her lips, but she doesn’t drink. Instead, she stares at the man behind the bar. She stares down the bartender who doesn’t see either of us. “Don’t you ever believe that shit.”