Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 48306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 242(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 242(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
Hell. Darkness. Redemption.
Well, at least sort of.
So instead, as I shut my front door behind me, I just send a one-word reply, even though there’s a damn novel’s worth of words I’d rather be sending.
Yes.
Her response comes fast.
The text convo above says otherwise.
I groan as I scroll up—up to our previous text conversions. The filthy talk, from both of us, but mostly me. And the pictures—Jesus fucking Christ, the pictures. My cock instantly swells as I let my eyes drink in the sight of her perfect, perky, soft tits, capped with these mouthwatering pink nipples. There’s a shot of her cupping one of them, her fingers teasing the nipple as her lip twists in her teeth.
I scroll higher, up to one of her lying across white sheets, her legs wide and her fingers obscenely spreading her pink, glistening pussy lips open for the shot.
The beast inside of me roars for release, and I’m seconds away from doing exactly that when reason somehow sanity finds a foothold in me again. I growl to myself as I scroll away, squeezing my eyes shut, like that might ward off the forbidden temptation.
Before was wrong.
I manage to text back.
Why
You fucking know why
And she damn well does. I know this is her playing games. This is her being the Waverly I know from the pool—tenacious, persistent to a sometimes-annoying degree, and not ever backing down from a challenge. And right now, I’m thinking I’m her challenge.
Because you’re my coach
Bingo
There’s no reply for a second or two, and I drag my eyes away from the phone to step into big-ass house I’m currently calling home. When I took the job with Winchester, my accountant thought buying rather than renting in a well-off town with an always on the up housing market like Southworth was a sound investment. And I mean, what the fuck else was I going to do with the money I made in my previous life? The life I lost with the crash; I mean.
Across the cavernous living room, the wall of windows overlooks the river, and it’s there that I stand in the semi-darkness of the room. In my old life, now would be a great fucking time for a drink. Or ten.
But that life is over now, and when I glance over to the shelf next to the big flat screen on the wall, the one with the title box full of coins—coins marking milestones of this new life of mine—I’m reminded of that.
The glass and my face are suddenly illuminated by the phone as another message pops up.
You wanted me before…
When you lied about your age and I didn’t know who you were? And besides, you don’t know what want and lust even means, Waverly.
Bullshit. I’m pretty sure I do.
I turn, shaking my head as the smile finally creeps across my lips. Damn is she persistent. A handful, you might say.
My phone dings again.
We could have an experiment.
Responding at all, to anything at this point, is a terrible idea. But then, there I go typing anyways.
Such as?
A test. To see if you really mean it.
My jaw tightens, and I’m about to ask her what she means, or what the fuck we’re doing, when suddenly, a picture comes through.
Fuck. Me.
It’s her, biting her lip and standing in her bedroom in a white, lacy, see-through bra. I groan, my eyes dragging over every pixel of the shot, my cock swelling at the sight of her nipples slightly visible through the gauzy lace before I shake my head to focus.
I can’t look at this. I can’t look at her like this, or I’m going to break.
Stop it.
All you have to do is put your phone down…
And then she sends a fucking winky face emoji, followed by more dots of her typing. And then, anther picture comes through, and my pulse spikes.
In this one, she’s pulling the bra down with a thumb, showing her plunging cleavage and her nipples clearly visible and poking out through the flimsy material.
Shit.
We’re done here.
I send it to her, but I might as well be saying it out loud to myself, because it’s me who needs to hear it, and take it to heart.
K. So stop answering then. Put your phone down.
I’m serious.
And no one’s forcing you to look.
I growl, my pulse racing as move back from the windows and sink into my couch. My cock aches as it pulses rock hard, my balls swelling with cum as my eyes burn into the phone in my hand.
I’m putting my phone down now. This is over.
You sure?
Yes.
But you’re still responding…
My jaw tightens as I sink my head back into the couch. I tell myself to stop. I tell myself to turn the fucking phone off or throw it out the goddamn window and just leave it. But, I can’t, and that’s not at all what I do. Instead, I grip the phone in one hand, and even as I’m telling myself to knock it off, the other hand drops to the front of my jeans and rests on the thick, pulsing bulge there.