Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 62737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
“Goddamn,” I groan, eyes closing as the sensation takes over. The precum dripping from my dick helps guide my path. Never before have I had this problem. I’m leaking like a goddamn sieve, no lube necessary. Not that I’m opposed to using it, but when you’re caught up in the heat of the moment, it’s damn annoying to take a break. I keep stroking my length to images going from Ronnie lapping my cock to her straddling my lap, tits in my face bouncing freely, and my mouth capturing a nipple in my mouth. I’d bet she’d clamp down on my dick, causing me to stutter in my movements, unable to hold back as I lift my hips up and she slams down.
“Fuck, just like that,” I mumble into the van. No one’s around, so I can be as loud as I want. Still, it’s not completely sound proof, and the last thing I want is to walk out of here alone only to have other campers look at me funny.
I keep up my movements, stroking myself with a roughness and quickness I’ve perfected over the many years, needing to wrap this up if I’m going to take a shower, order Ronnie’s groceries, and greet her by the time she rolls up. Sweat is pouring from my temples, my abdomen is pulling taut, my back arches, and only then am I painting my stomach with my cum. Each pulsation of my length spurts more on my skin, coating me, and I know soon enough, it’ll be Ronnie’s instead of mine. Which does nothing to calm my dick down, thinking about opening the lips of her pussy to watch my seed drip out of her. I’d only let that happen for a minute before I pushed it back inside of her, where it belongs, and doing so with my fingers. Fucking shit, it’s going to be a long few days of being around her on my best behavior.
That is unless I notice she’ll fold first, then I’ll be bringing everything to the table. I’ll even walk around naked in order to tempt her even more. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll do anything to have more of Ronnie.
8
RONNIE
I’m not ready, not in the least. My body is boiling over the edge, ready to succumb at any moment. Which is why I fall to my back on the bed, dropping my phone to the nightstand, and try to breathe through the excruciating need to get myself off before I head to Jude. There’s no way I can see him in the flesh without trying to hump him like a dog in heat. Case in point yesterday. Had it not been for the crowd, I’m pretty sure both of us would have ripped our clothes off and gone at it.
Even last night, when I came home, stripped out of my clothes, took my hair out of the braids, and stepped in the steaming hot shower, my hormones did not settle down. If anything, the rush of water sluicing down my body amped them up. I didn’t have a choice but to take matters into my hands. The palm of my hand against the tile gave me the purchase to keep me standing up while I trailed a path down to my center. When the tips of my fingers lightly grazed my clit, I needed immediate relief, so I sunk them inside and pulled them in and out all of five times before I fell apart. It helped me sleep like a baby last night. Only now I’m ramped up and ready to go again.
“Get yourself off and pull yourself together, Veronica Navarro,” I bemoan, talking to myself. I love the way Jude says my name, Ronnie or Foxy, his voice dropping to a lower tone, sounding deeper, a subtle husk, and insanely more intimate.
I’m still in my sleep clothes, an oversized concert shirt from years ago, worn so many times it’s soft, nearly threadbare, and didn’t bother with any panties. The thought of pulling on more fabric when all I wanted to do was close my eyes and replay every moment of the day became too much. It’s working in my favor as I lift my hips up to pull the barely gray fabric up my body. I do an ab curl, even though there isn’t a muscle to be seen beneath the roundness of my stomach. I’ve got boobs, ass, and hips. What I don’t have is a flat stomach. I jiggle when I walk, and it doesn’t matter how much I work at the bar slinging drinks, lifting kegs or trash bags into the dumpster, this is my shape. I’ve learned to live with it and work it in a way with clothes that don’t make me feel frumpy or self-conscious.
I shove the rest of the top off, leaving me in nothing but my bare skin, and roll to my side to dig into my drawer. My stash of toys is plentiful, it has to be since the well dried up a year ago when I parted ways with what I now know was or is a pathological liar. I decided to shut up shop and worked on myself. In doing so, I’ve learned what I want and don’t want, a testament to my brother and father. Both of which sat me down at the bar, gave me a shot of whisky, then proceeded to lay down some cold, hard truths. I kicked Jack to the curb two days later. He tried to smarm his way back into my life until I blocked him from everything—my phone, my social media, my apartment, thanks to the manager, and definitely from the bar. Jack got the message two weeks later. I was worried I’d need to take out a restraining order, but one day, he finally stopped showing up.