Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
I teased her about the muumuu, but honestly, she’s just as sexy in that as she was in just an old band t-shirt and panties. Fuck, the lace between her thighs might have been the best thing I’ve seen in a very long while, but when I closed my eyes, it was the way that goddamned long gown swished around her legs and clung to the tips of her breasts that took up so much space in my head. When have I ever been attracted to a woman covered up practically from her neck to her shins?
Groaning, I sweep my hand over my face, refusing to get out of bed until the very last minute. She’s no longer in bed with me. Like a fool, I pretended to be asleep when she climbed out of bed and headed into the bathroom, the shadowy form of her body backlit by the light—just one more thing to provoke that animal inside me I’m barely managing to control.
I’m an enthusiastic lover, and I’ve had a lot of great sex. It fucking kills me that I remember the girl I fucked at the airport before getting on a plane headed to New Mexico, but I can’t remember the night with Sylvie. I’ve never had this fucking problem before, and it makes me think that maybe Slick was right. Something fucking happened that night that made me put a mental black spot where she existed, but I can’t ask Sylvie about it. I’m already the asshole who fucked and forgot her, even though it wasn’t on purpose. I don’t imagine it would go over well if I drilled her about what we said or how I acted when we were done.
As if the universe thinks I’m owed even more punishment, the bathroom door opens and Sylvie emerges, a cloud of steam following her towel-clad body into the room.
A gentleman would look away, give her a little privacy, but I’m no fool. If she didn’t want to be watched, she would’ve dressed in the fucking bathroom, so I don’t pull my eyes from her, even when she looks over at me to find me watching.
Her skin is flushed, and I imagine she’s like every other woman I’ve encountered and turns the water temp up high enough to scald flesh from the damn bone. Gravity-forced water droplets run down her arms and chest, and I swallow with the need to lick them from her skin, all the while thankful of the thick blankets on the bed that are keeping my attraction to her hidden.
She rolls her eyes at me as she turns around to dig through her suitcase, and the small butterfly tattoo on her shoulder blade should bring back memories, but nothing about it is familiar. I know I’ve seen it because I do some of my best work when a girl is bent over in front of me, but I still can’t seem to conjure it from my memory.
She seems as shameless as I’m acting this morning when she drops her towel to her feet, the heart shape of her ass making me grip my dick and squeeze.
She looks back at me over her shoulder, that little butterfly right under her chin.
She got it to honor her grandmother. The woman would spend hours in her tiny flower garden watching them as if they were majestic creatures.
I don’t know what I look like, what expression I have on my face as the memory hits me in the chest, but she doesn’t seem very impressed before turning her head back around.
My heart races, knowing she told me that the night we were together. There’s no way I just made that shit up in my head.
I squeeze my eyes, trying to pull anything else from that night that I possibly can, but nothing comes flooding back.
I’ve imagined her in a million different positions, whispering things to me as I brought her to orgasms. I can’t trust that what I’m picturing isn’t fantasy rather than what really happened, but I cling to the fact about her tattoo, knowing she looked at me that night exactly like she did just a moment ago.
My eyes ache, both from lack of sleep as well as scrunching them closed as I try to force the memories back in.
My hands on her hips, the way she moaned when I’d move my hips and hit that spot inside of her as she begged me not to stop, to go harder, to make her scream.
“Fuck,” I groan, my balls tightening.
“Are you seriously fucking jacking off over there?”
I snap my eyes open to find her glaring at me, fully dressed in jeans and a sweater, hands on her hips in the same stubborn way she stood last night.
“No,” I argue, but follow her eyes to the blankets where my hand is very obviously still gripping my dick from earlier. “Morning wood.”