Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 85838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
“You,” he rasps out, moves back a few inches, pushes his shorts down, takes out his dick. His cock is nice and wide, and hungry for me.
“Fucking love that your dick’s bigger than mine,” he says as he gives his a few tugs.
“Yeah? Why?”
“Love that you’ve got the monster cock, and you want me to fuck you,” he says.
My brain sizzles. Circuits fry and overload. “Want that so badly,” I say, lifting my ass higher.
Zane lets go of his dick so he can pull down my shorts halfway. His voice goes hoarse as his hands dart out to squeeze my cheeks. “This ass…”
I work hard for this ass. It doesn’t come in a bottle. It comes from the gym, and I’m proud of the shape of it, the feel of it, and most of all, what it does to this man.
Zane pulls my shorts a little lower, then he lines up behind me, sliding his hard dick along my crack. I drop my head down, moaning at the tantalizing feel of his shaft gliding up and down. I can feel him squeeze the head of his cock and use some of his arousal to ease the path along my flesh.
Then, he finds a rhythm. When he hits the perfect pace, he spits in his palm, ropes his arm around my waist, and grabs my aching dick.
As he pumps, I shudder, my world spiraling quickly.
This won’t take me long at all.
His hand corkscrews up and down my shaft. “Watch us,” he says.
“I am,” I mumble.
Like I could look anywhere but at our reflection. My palms splayed against the glass. His big body aligned with mine. His cock rocking against my ass. His fist stroking me.
As he works me over, lust coils in my stomach, tightens in my legs. “I’m close,” I grit out.
“Me too,” he grunts.
Any second, I’ll shoot all over the mirror, and I don’t care. But Zane lets go, spins me around, pushes my back to the glass.
“Hands up,” he says.
Quickly, I lift them high. After he spits again, he jerks us together in his big fist. The feel of our cocks together, rubbing and sliding, unleashes all my pleasure.
I come hard, the world blurring as I shoot all over his cock and his hand.
“Yesss,” he grunts, milking out his orgasm all over mine, easing the pace, slowing down, and finally letting go.
We’re a hot, sticky, sweaty mess.
And I don’t care. Especially when he leans in and kisses me. He’s soft and slow, a little tender. But it’s the sounds he makes that cause my heart to stutter. The gentle sigh, the tender murmur. This might be the best part of this whole white-hot encounter—how he kisses me like this is going to happen tomorrow, the next day, and the next.
Even though it can’t.
After we’ve cleaned up, a clock ticks impatiently in my mind. A harsh reminder that I need to say something awful like we can’t do that again.
I practice those words in my mind but they’re too terrible to voice, even in the silence. We cross the gym, leaving the scene of the crime. But at the door, we stop. Zane looks at me with resignation in his eyes. I bet it matches mine.
I have to go first. “This can’t happen again,” I say, as resolute as I can be.
He nods like he knew that was coming. “I know. It won’t. We just needed to get that out of our systems, right?”
That’s it. That has to be it. I swallow bitterly. “Exactly. A one-time thing. It’ll be easier now to work together.”
His eyes widen, fear flickering in them. “You’re not going to drop me?”
My heart squeezes. This sweet man. This sweet, worried man. “Where did that come from?” I ask, surprised he went there. “No. Of course I won’t drop you.”
“Good. I like working with you. I just worry because I need this deal so badly,” he says. There’s that young side of him again. The twenty-five-year-old rising star.
I tap my chest. “I’m the one who’s not supposed to sleep with a client. It could put undue pressure on you.”
He frowns. “I don’t feel pressure from you at all.”
“I’m glad,” I say, mildly relieved. “But still, it’s wrong.”
“It’s not wrong to me. I know you’re looking out for me. I trust you completely, and I’d tell anyone as much,” he says.
His faith in me is a balm, but it’ll only work on me. No one else would believe I didn’t pressure him to work with me, take a deal, sign a contract. I wince, but then serve up the bare truth. “The rule exists,” I say, feeling a little sleazy—or maybe a lot, “to protect the client.”
He drags a hand down his face, then sighs. “You’re not pressuring me. We’ve worked well together so far,” he says, so vulnerable, so concerned.