Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 111165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 556(@200wpm)___ 445(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 556(@200wpm)___ 445(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
I’m a mess.
“How about I take the pressure off,” he says, his hands dropping away and leaving my skin feeling bare and cold where his warmth once was.
He takes a few steps back until his legs hit the edge of the bed.
With his eyes burning holes into mine, he starts unbuttoning his white dress shirt. Before I can process what’s happening – that he’s stripping in front of me – his shirt is undone, pulled off, being discarded on the floor.
Holy bejeesus.
Just with the way I ogled his legs before, I’m soaking every single inch of his upper body. I’ve seen it before, on the beach. I know where his tattoos are, but I’ve never had a good look at them. I know he’s ripped but I never allowed myself to drink it all in.
Now I can. Now he wants me to look. And why not?
Lazarus Scott looks like a sex god.
I can say that without even having slept with him because honestly, this view of his body alone is worth the price of admission.
It’s always been obvious that he has these amazing, wide, broad shoulders that lead to muscled arms and a trim torso. I’ve admired that since forever, especially when he wears tight, thin T-shirts.
But now, shirtless, I can see how firm his chest is, a dusting of chest hair between his pecs, half camouflaged by the tattoos that work their way down and across his body. I wonder about their stories, their histories. The ink looks old, words and symbols and skulls and a map of England and the union jack. His body is a treasure map, something that goes beyond surface symbols.
The ridges of his washboard abs, the slim Vs of his hips as they disappear into a grey waistband, the flat plane of his belly—I want to run my fingers all over him, just to see what those kind of muscles feel like.
I manage to drag my attention back up to his eyes. He has the cockiest smile on, tempered only by the heat in his gaze.
He starts undoing his belt. Then the button of his pants. Then his zipper is pulled down with a sound that echoes throughout the room.
His pants fall to his feet, he steps out of them, out of his shoes and socks and now he’s just in his briefs. The outline of his cock is completely visible, long and thick and curving up toward the band, barely contained. Through the thin fabric I can see everything, including the faint marks of his piercing.
Probably not a Prince Albert, I think to myself and wonder if I’ll be telling Naomi later. Maybe.
Then he pulls the briefs down, tosses them to the side and stands there with his cock out and I’m…I’m…
Terrified.
It’s so oddly alien, even after seeing a million cocks, both wonderful ones from online porn and shitty ones from unsolicited dick picks. It’s also massive. I don’t have a lot of experience to measure it to, obviously, but either my vibrator is shyly modest or Laz has one fucking huge cock.
And right at the end, along the ridge, near the swollen dark tip, are two barbells, two rungs of a Jacob’s ladder. Am I crazy for being relieved he only has two? I’m not sure my virginity could handle his cock, let alone one lined with metal.
“That’s not going to fit,” I blurt out.
He lets out a hoarse laugh. “I’ll make sure it does. Now, are you going to need a bowl of popcorn for the show or do you want to get naked too?”
I grin at him, my heart alternating between tight squeezes and low dips, like it’s on a rollercoaster ride inside my chest. My feelings are all over the place, I’m staring at a very raw, very beautiful, very formidable naked Laz, and now I’m expected to get naked. I barely even look at myself naked in the mirror when I’m at home alone.
“Just a minute,” I tell him, turning around to have the glass of champagne. I gulp it down, the bubbles going up my nose, feeling as fizzy as my brain.
Laz has closed the gap between us by the time I’ve turned around.
I can’t even react. This big naked man is right up against me, one hand disappearing into my hair. He kisses me, softly, sweetly, enough so that all my worries and hang-ups start to melt, like an ice cream cone in the sun. I’m dripping into his hands, his touch, his lips.
While our kiss deepens, our tongues moving harder yet slower and then faster against each other, his large hands slip to my shoulders, palming them briefly before running the straps down. They reach around, pushing down the back of my dress, undoing my bra.
I know what he’s doing and I couldn’t appreciate it more. He’s removing my bra without removing my dress. He knows what makes me feel more comfortable.