Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 88613 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88613 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Why was he there? And why had I felt such a strong urge to kiss the guy?
I’d be the first to admit that I used my dick to think way more than I used my brain to think. It got me into the occasional issue and ruined pretty much every single romantic relationship I tried to foster. I just loved sex too much—it would override my morale compass and have me balls-deep in someone who wasn’t my boyfriend or girlfriend at the time. The guilt would then eat away at me from the inside out until I spilled the icy-cold beans, telling on myself and sabotaging whatever good thing I had going for me.
Which was one of the main reasons why I’d been single for the last five years. And being single meant I could fuck people without the guilt, which also meant I could fantasize about them too.
I flapped my wings through a low-hanging cloud, the wet condensation sliding off my tail. I pictured the lean, muscular Marvel in a more relaxed situation, where instead of being surrounded by dead cultists, he was surrounded by crisp white bedsheets. I’d start at his feet first, slowly rubbing them as I kissed his ankle, his sole, his calf. I’d watch as he’d get harder and harder, his cock twitching as I kissed my way up his strong leg, tantalizing him until I reached the spot he’d been dying to have my lips around.
But I wouldn’t give him that either. I’d go back to the other leg, kissing my way up as he begged for me to suck his needy cock. I’d have him use his blue threads of mana to transport us to the clouds, turning my room into the same sky I currently drifted through. I’d then hitch his legs up on my shoulders and tease him with my cock as I kissed his chest, drinking up the sensation of both our erections rubbing together, neither of us shy about how badly we wanted this.
Fucking hell. I should have gotten his number. If not for the sex, then at least just to figure out why he was after the paintings.
But let’s be honest: I wanted his number mainly for the sex.
Underneath me, the beach became more and more populated as I drew closer to Santa Monica. Million-dollar beachside homes lined the traffic-jammed street, the world-famous pier becoming clearer and clearer on the horizon. The huge Ferris wheel spun slowly next to the twisty roller coaster that went out over the ocean. I could already smell the churros and turkey legs that were sold by the various stands on the pier, the sound of kids laughing and seagulls squawking filling the air.
My daydreams of hot sex and big dick started to shift as I got closer to my destination. The heat inside my veins started to wane, my thoughts shifting from hot, naked men to sad, clothed ones. My heart grew heavy, the lust evaporating off me like water on a hot pavement. I turned away from the ocean and flew north toward the tall building with the floating red cross at the top of it, the words “Saints Hospital” floating just next to it. The Los Angeles hills framed the building made of steel and brick, rows and rows of windows lining it, each room filled with a sick or dying patient looking out at the scenic landscape for possibly the last time.
I slowed down as I drew closer, descending onto a side street that was wide enough for me to land without hitting a car and needing to leave a note behind. I wasn’t the most graceful of fliers—that title belonged to my little brother Warrick—but I managed to stick the landing. I shifted back to my human form in the middle of the street, a few pedestrians standing by and gawking as I brushed invisible dirt off my shirt. I gave them a wink and started down the street toward the main entrance of the hospital. I could hear hushed murmurs and whispers behind me but didn’t pay them much attention, focusing instead on what was ahead.
“Hello, Mr. Blackthorne,” the receptionist greeted me, smiling underneath her mane of curls as I walked up to the front desk of the brightly lit hospital.
“Erica, you can call me Maddox. Better yet, you can call me Madds.” I’d visited so frequently these past few months that I felt like I knew most of the workers here.
“I just love how Mr. Blackthorne sounds. Makes me feel like I’m in a spy movie or something.” Erica giggled as she got my visitor badge ready, printing it out and passing it over to me. “But I’ll be sure to remember that.” She pushed a rogue curl from her face, smiling as she motioned down the bright hallway, the sunshine-yellow tiled floor seeming far too upbeat for the kind of place we were in. “The elevator should already be called for you, Madds.”