Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 191(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 191(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
"God, you feel amazing," she pants.
I want to say something witty, but my brain is short-circuiting. She's so fucking tight, so hot. My hand is definitely not like this. Neither are my dreams. This is perfection, those are a sad simile.
"You feel like heaven, Dani." I pick up the pace, striking deeper, and her moans turn desperate. "Christ, baby. you're strangling the fuck out of my cock right now."
She moans my name, meeting every thrust, greedy for more.
The pressure builds fast. I fight like hell to hold back, wanting her to finish first, but I'm so fucking close it's ridiculous.
I reach between us, grinding my thumb against her clit, and she goes off like a grenade, coming hard, her whole body locking up around me.
"Christ, I'm going to come," I groan.
She squeaks, her eyes widening. "Pull out."
"Hell no." I sink into her again, trying not to lose my mind. "You let me in, Sunshine. I'm never pulling out now."
She should probably kick my ass for that, but she can't hide the way her inner muscles clench around me in response. That tells me everything I need to know.
I let go, coming deep inside her with a groan that probably wakes the neighbors. For a few seconds, I can't move or breathe. I'm not even sure I'm alive. Her fudge didn't kill me. Her magical fucking pussy did.
Best. Death. Ever.
When I can move again, I collapse next to her, pulling her into my arms.
She buries her face in my chest, panting breathlessly. "I should be so mad at you right now."
"Yeah," I agree, grinning so hard my face hurts, "but you aren't."
She looks up at me, her eyes wide, and every piece of my heart falls into her hands.
Christ. I can't believe I ever thought I was happy before this.
All I wanted for Christmas was Dani Frost in my bed. And somehow, impossibly, she's here. She's mine.
How the fuck do I convince her to let me keep her forever?
Chapter Five
Dani
It's been less than five minutes since I lost my virginity when Trent starts pushing me toward the shower. It's not even because he wants me out of his bed. There's a handprint on my ass to prove he doesn't. It's because, according to him, I smell like a candy store exploded, and if I don't have clothes on soon, he won't be responsible for his actions.
I have a feeling he just wants to get me wet and soapy.
When he climbs into the shower with me, my suspicions are confirmed.
This is not a complaint.
His shower is the size of a walk-in closet and has more nozzles than one of those fancy car washes. We get approximately thirty seconds of actual cleaning done before he's got me pinned to the cool tile wall, fucking me like the water is a performance-enhancing drug.
It's a good time. I give the shower five stars. Would recommend.
When we finally run out of hot water, my legs barely work, and my brain is a puddle of post-orgasmic mush.
I wrap myself in the world's softest towel and follow Trent into his closet, which is easily the size of my entire apartment. He lets me borrow a t-shirt and boxer so I'm not running around naked, but he's grumpy about it. Not about letting me borrow them, but about me not being naked.
Once we're dressed, I follow him to the kitchen. I was too worried to notice much last night, but it's so blindingly modern I feel like I'm one mess from being kicked out by an overly fussy butler.
Trent, on the other hand, is perfectly at home. He's in a fresh t-shirt and joggers, already rifling through the fridge like this is just another typical morning, instead of the day after he almost died in my arms and then rearranged my entire world (twice).
He pulls out bacon, eggs, and a bag of spinach like he's on autopilot. He glances back at me and grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. For a second, I wonder if I'm dreaming again. But the twinge between my legs quickly reminds me that I have not actually died and gone to heaven.
This is real.
"Scrambled or fried?" he asks.
I blink at him. "What?"
He gestures at the eggs with a whisk, then steps right up behind me and nuzzles my neck, his hands landing on my hips like that's his new favorite spot. "How do you like your eggs, Sunshine?"
I have no idea. His voice is a rasp in my ear. His hands are on me. My brain has officially left the building.
"Uh. Whatever's easiest?" I squeak. I try to step away, but he just follows, his hands glued to my hips. He does not believe in letting go, apparently. Not that I'm complaining. Definitely not.
"Scrambled, then," he decides, releasing me to stomp toward the fancy stove. He moves with military precision, grabbing pans and spatulas and—oh my god—he's even got a little chef's towel slung over his shoulder.