Twisted Love (Stockholm Syndrome Series Book 1)
Page 25
This is it. This is the moment I’ve waited for for years. The end of my dry spell. The beginning of ecstasy. I’m so close to coming. I can feel it in the quickening of my heartbeat; the phantom taste of his tongue in my mouth, his lips against mine; and the scrape of my nails against the nape of his neck.
I moan loudly, my voice thick from pleasure. “I’m close. I’m close. I’m so close,” I say, gasping between each breath.
He pulls back suddenly, and the loss of his warmth is replaced by the still coolness of the air. “Can it wait?” he asks, his tone sharp and demanding.
“W-what?” I ask, struggling to settle myself through the dense haze of lust.
It’s unnavigable.
Is he…?
I look down at him, following his line of sight. He’s still staring at my exposed flesh down there.
My jaw drops.
Did he just ask my vagina if it can wait? To come?
Because the answer is a resounding no. It’s waited, like, two years to come on someone’s hand that’s not my own.
I reach down and tug my underwear up from its position on my knees. When it’s properly protecting me, I quickly cover it with my dress, realizing belatedly how ugly nude, cotton underwear is. I might as well be wearing granny panties.
There’s a resounding silence as I wait for him to stop staring at my now covered crotch. When I chance a glance down at his handsome face, I discover that he’s not staring at me. He’s staring into space—in the direction my ugly ass panties once were. I side step discretely, putting as much distance between us as possible.
He may be the hottest man I’ve ever seen, but I don’t hook up with Crazy. Even if he comes with a mouth capable of inconceivable pleasures. My eyes dart to the door, wondering if I can make a quick escape without him realizing I’m leaving.
“Fine,” he says, and I gather that he isn’t talking to my girly bits.
He’s talking into an earpiece. It’s smaller than the coiled ones the guards are wearing. Whereas theirs are larger and wired, his is wireless and tiny, fitting entirely into his ear and camouflaged by its flesh-like color.
He stands up, straightens his suit, and barks, “I’ll be there in a minute.”
With that, he raps on the door three times and enters the club as soon as it opens, leaving me to gawk by myself, my dry spell still intact.
No apologies.
No goodbyes.
The douchebag doesn’t even give me the courtesy of looking at me.
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