Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 29729 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 149(@200wpm)___ 119(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29729 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 149(@200wpm)___ 119(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
I love feeling him come in me. I love the way his cum drips down my thighs after we’ve finished, the way I can still feel the proof of his lust for me, sometimes even hours later.
Not to mention, I love how hard he fucks me. He’s not afraid to make it hard for me to walk the next day, and I appreciate that. I might be a lady in the streets, but I like it rough in the sheets.
I’m still daydreaming about last night when we glide to a stop. The windows are tinted, so I can’t see where we are yet, but judging by the grin on Cassius’s face, it’s somewhere good. It’s always somewhere good. The man has perfect taste in everything, I swear, from apartment décor to food to… well, me, I guess. Maybe I’m feeling biased.
I am definitely feeling biased right now.
He weaves his fingers through mine as we exit the limo, and my eyes widen when I see the restaurant. It’s the newest place in town, ultra-exclusive, so popular that even I have heard of it, and I’ve been in near total baby induced isolation for the last few months. Last I heard, the waiting list for a table here was months long.
But of course, Cassius found some way to swing it. I glance up at him, smirking, as we glide through the doors.
The restaurant is fine dining, a fusion of traditional Japanese-style food and Southern cooking. I’ve never tasted anything like it before, but I am instantly in love. Every plate of food is more delicious than the last, and though I can’t even pronounce half the ingredients, I savor every bite.
As for Cassius, he seems to be enjoying himself too, though his eyes drift over to me more often than the food.
I savor that, too. It’s been a while since a man looked at me like that. A lifetime, in fact.
“So,” he says, as we’re between courses. “What makes Manila Cross tick?”
I laugh into my wine glass, but then I look up to find him studying me, and realize he’s serious. I set the glass back down, thoughtful. “Depends what you mean by tick, I guess,” I reply after a while. “I mean, I love my children, I enjoy my new job…”
“I’m not talking about the present.” His foot hooks around my ankle, tugs on my leg. I foot-wrestle him under the table, grinning at him the whole while. “You know, what are your sore spots, how did your childhood screw you up, all that jazz.”
I burst out laughing. Our eyes meet over the rims of our wine glasses as we toast. “Mm, well… Childhood-wise, growing up with my mom was pretty… tough.” Unwillingly, my gaze drifts toward my cell phone, face-up on the table just in case Lisa calls about the twins. “I guess that’s why I wanted to have kids of my own so badly.”
He tilts his head, questioning. “Because things were hard growing up?”
I sigh. “Because Mom was hard, honestly.” He waits patiently for me to elaborate, holding eye contact. I can’t lie to that clear steel-gray gaze of his. “She left me alone a lot… She was a single mom too, which I know is hard, but like… She’d leave me to cook my own dinner by age 5. I already knew how to operate the stove by then, and how to make pasta, hot dogs…”
His eyes widen, his lips clamping into a tight line of disapproval. But he doesn’t interrupt. He lets me talk, getting this off my chest.
“When I got older and started going to school, she’d never come to any events. She skipped parent-teacher conferences, wouldn’t pick me up from any extracurriculars… My friends’ parents fed me more often than not, driving me to their houses from soccer and letting me stay over, especially when Mom would go on a bender. They didn’t want me coming home finding her passed out in a pile of her own vomit.” I grimace and close my eyes. Why am I telling him all this? He’ll judge me. Think I’m just like her.
But then I feel his warm hand close over mine on top of the table. When I open my eyes again, he’s watching me carefully, concerned and sympathetic all at once.
“I know how that feels,” he murmurs, and my heart aches in my chest, seeing my pain mirrored on his face. “My parents weren’t around much either. Dad was always working, and Mom was sick when I was younger… She passed away when I was only twelve.”
I lift my free hand to fold his hand in mine, squeezing gently. Like he did, I don’t interrupt, just wait for him to get this off his chest, the way he let me have space to talk.
He shakes his head. “I guess that’s why I always wanted kids, too. I wanted to do a better job than they did. To raise a generation better than ours, to show my kids that parents can be a great thing to have.”