Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 94546 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94546 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
The stranger snapped off the remaining heel, my mouth gaping to the point it would be fruitless to act as if I couldn’t take a man of his size between my lips. “What the hell?” I snap back to a seated position, then snatch my poor, defenseless heel from his grasp. “Why did you do that? What did my shoe ever do to you?”
With my mind blinded by both grief and a rampant horniness I’ve never experienced, I hook my foot onto my lap, then endeavor to return the heel to its rightful spot.
When not even the goop coating it can save it from imminent death, I toss it into the bin housing the tissue, then fold my arms under my chest. “I would have hobbled. Any girl this side of Jersey would choose to hobble over wearing flats.” I gag like the stranger’s pricy aftershave hasn’t overtaken the scent of horse poop. “But nooo… you had to ruin a perfectly good shoe just so it looked exactly like the other one…” My words trail off when the stranger doesn’t respond to my rant.
He’s so still, I’m not even sure he’s breathing.
I’ve been told my death stare is killer, but I had no clue how potent it was until now.
“Sir…”
I stop talking for the second time when my eyes lock with his lidded gaze. His chest is as unmoving as mine, but he is very much alive because try as I may, I can’t miss the bulge in his pants that requires a functioning heart to keep inflated. He’s hard and staring at my damp panties—my unhidden lace panties since my ankle is hooked on my thigh and my skirt has disappeared into the abyss of an unflattering stomach roll.
Horrified, I tug on my skirt while muttering, “Sorry—”
He interrupts my apology with the same confidence he used when he caught me staring at his crotch. “No, you’re not.” As he licks his lips, his eyes slowly lift to my face. “But I am.” Before I can ask what in the world he has to be sorry about, he relieves me of some of my confusion. “Because as much as my brain is screaming for me not to do this, I’m going to do it anyway.”
An unladylike moan rolls up my chest when he grips my thighs, drags me forward until my damp panties are hidden by the massive rock beneath his zipper, then he spears his tongue into my gaped mouth.
Sweet lord. He tastes good—a hint of mint and a refined liquid you’d only find on the top shelf of a bar in New York. It’s a scrumptious palette I lock away for future use before I mimic the hungry movements of his tongue and lips.
We kiss for several panty-wetting minutes, our embrace only ending when his wandering hands have my breathless lungs demanding an influx of air.
His fingers are no longer stroking the seam of my damp panties.
They’ve slipped beneath them.
When the stranger’s eyes lock with mine under a curtain of dark hair fallen in front of them, I bob my chin, permitting him to do all the wicked things streaming through my deviant mind.
Mercifully, he answers the wordless screams of my body even quicker than my mouth can articulate its needs. He slides a thick digit inside me, groaning into my neck when it presents as slippery as my outer bits.
“Christ,” he murmurs, his breath hot. “This could get me sued.”
You wouldn’t believe he was worried with how fast he pumps his finger in and out of me. He pushes my race to climax within an inch of the finish line admirably fast, and even quicker than that, our freight train of destruction derails the tracks.
Not because I climax, but because we’re interrupted by a friendly yet highly suspicious voice. “Oh, goodness. I’m so sorry. I thought you were trackside.”
As a pretty lady with short blonde curls and a tiny button nose darts her hand up to cover her eyes, the stranger yanks his finger out of my vagina, snaps my panties back into place, then tugs down my skirt as if he knew where it disappeared to all along.
The situation goes from bad to worse when the interrupter’s sixth sense has her focus returning to us. She isn’t drinking in my flushed cheeks, wide eyes, and sweat-dotted neck. She’s staring at the brown dots splattered across the stranger’s pricy suit, her brows pulling together more the longer she stares.
Oh God, I hope she doesn’t think I have a scat fetish!
My panic has me on the verge of heaving, but despite the numerous churns of my stomach announcing that I’m about to barf, the stranger refuses to relinquish his grip on my wrist. He encircled it a second after a demand to run filtered through my brain, which was a nanosecond after we were interrupted.