Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 41327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 207(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 138(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 207(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 138(@300wpm)
I’m hit with the warm pleasant scent of fresh wood shavings. The workshop is a cathedral of wood and metal. Tools hanging in perfect order. Projects in various stages of completion. There’s the low sound of Fleetwood Mac playing…Stevie Nicks belting out ‘Edge of Seventeen’…
And there's Jack.
Not working. Not building.
Standing.
His back is to me, one hand braced against the workbench, the other—
Oh.
Oh.
He's stroking himself. Hard, fast, desperate. His bare shoulders bunch and twitch with each movement, muscles shifting beneath his skin.
I should leave. I should turn around. I should pretend I never saw this.
Instead, my stupid brain shuts down and I whisper, "Jack."
He freezes. His entire body goes rigid. Slowly, he turns his head, catches me watching from the doorway. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide, expression caught between shame and defiance.
"You shouldn't be here." His voice is wrecked, strained.
I step forward, barely knowing myself as fascination and lust tangle my brain circuitry. "I've never..." I swallow, then try again. "I mean, I've never seen…like this, before.” I babble unintelligibly, half a beat away from sounding like Oliver Twist...
Please, Sir, may I have some more?
His brow furrows. "Like what?"
"That.” I gesture vaguely toward where his hand looks like it’s about to pull his dick off.
Something shifts in his expression—disbelief, wonder, a flash of that primal possession that makes my knees weak.
"This?” He laughs, turning his body so I get a full view and all those images of the bull come rushing back. He adds a snort, low and dangerous, only embellishing my stupid bull metaphor. "Baby girl, this is about need. You should go back inside. This is a big boy problem and not for a little girl to watch."
I should run. But my feet have ideas of their own as they slide forward on the sawdust.
"Show me," I whisper. "I want to see."
His nostrils flare. His chest expands on a sharp inhale. "Oh, God, Delaney...don’t do this."
"I mean, no one will know. It’s not like you’ll be touching me." Another step. “Please?".
That breaks him. I see it happen—the last thread of restraint snapping behind his eyes.
"Jesus, I’m going to regret this. Come here." He doesn't move from the workbench. He makes me come to him, but now my traitorous feet don’t want to move. Finally, my thighs drive my feet forward, the flesh rubbing on the boxers as I close the gap. "Fucking brat. I can already tell you’re going to enjoy wrapping me around your fingers."
With a tiny smirk, I’m drawn to him like he's gravity itself. Shuffling through the sawdust like a toddler toward the cookie jar. I finally stop when barely a breath separates us.
"You want to watch?" His voice drops lower, rougher. "Then watch. Let’s just hope your father isn’t watching from heaven." He looks up at the ceiling, mumbling something about, ‘I’m sorry brother.’
He begins again, hand on his sex, stroking slow and deliberate now. Meant for display. Meant to teach.
"This is what you do to me," he growls. "Every fucking second since I pulled you from that river. Every time you look at me with those angel eyes. My fucking dick hurts. Every time you breathe. Then? Then?" He grits his teeth, finishing with a nod to my chest, “I’ve never been so fucking turned on by a nipple in my life. So fucking innocent, and so fucking not innocent enough.”
Heat pools between my thighs. I'm mesmerized by the movement of his hand, the thickness of him, the raw need etched into every line of his face.
"I shouldn't want this," I whisper, somehow emboldened by the way he said he’s never been so turned on his life. "I barely know you. You’re my dad’s friend."
"But you do know me." Not a question. "I can smell it on you."
My cheeks burn. My skin feels too tight. Too hot. The air between us seems to crackle with something primitive and unnameable, making it hard to breathe, hard to think beyond the rhythm of his hand and the answering pulse between my thighs.
The sound is mesmerizing. Soft and sharp. Fast and yet nuanced. He knows himself and it’s fucking hot.
Up and down, up and down, I watch until my eyes cross, then he does this little stall, pressing the tips of his four fingers around half-way up on the bottom side, switching from long, brutal pumps to short, staccato almost vibration type movements and oh shit, there’s a drop of clear liquid seeping out of the tip and I start to salivate.
Like, drool is pooling under my tongue.
"I never..." I swallow down the spit, wrapping my fingers around the base of my throat, ripping my eyes from the hypnotic movement of his hands on the biggest cock I’ve ever seen. "I've never felt like this before."
Everything below my waist comes alive, twisting and breathing and grunting like a beast awakened from a thousand-year hibernation.