Page 137 of Faking Cinderella
He shucks his shoes as I push his pants and boxers out of the way, and I get a full view of the beauty that is Rhys O’Malley’s penis.
He really is large.
Thick, slightly curved, with a jagged purple vein looping just beneath the blunt tip of his head and heavy balls nestled in a bed of dark curls.
He catches my wrist as I reach for him. “You. Naked.”
I bat my lashes at him. “I forgot how to take my clothes off.”
He stares at me for a beat, and then that smile pops out again.
“Did you now?” he asks as he crawls onto the bed.
I nod. “Brain go poof.”
He peels my jean jacket back off my shoulders, pausing to press kisses to each of my shoulders, then trailing his tonguedown each of my arms as he exposes them too. “You’re leaving these boots on.”
My vagina squeezes, pleasure pooling already between my legs again. “You like a woman to wear shoes to bed?”
“That’s a lot of words for someone who forgot how to take her own clothes off.”
I like this man.
I really, really do.
He’s funny and quick and everything about him screams I just want someone to love me as much as I’m capable of loving them.
Once he has my jacket off, pausing to linger with my hands, pressing kisses to my palms and my wrists in a way that makes me shiver from a place deep in my soul, the part of me that’s always taking care of things and never asking to be taken care of—not emotionally, anyway—he makes quick work of pulling my dress over my head.
He looks at me, hungry eyes scanning me from head to toe and back again while I lean on the bed in nothing but my cowboy boots.
But again—he makes slow work of sliding his hands down my body, kissing and licking and nipping at my neck, then my shoulder, my breasts, down to my belly, while we whisper nonsense mixed with arguments about me getting a turn to touch him and him reminding me that I’m a terrible apple slicer, which is so unrelated to everything that I laugh until he dips his tongue over my belly button.
And then nothing’s funny and everything’s hot and heavy and hurried.
The man settles between my thighs, hooks one of my legs over his shoulder, and eats my pussy like he’s been denied food for a month.
He’s rough and not shy about using his teeth on my inner thigh and my clit and knows when to tease me and when to finally let me come.
And after he’s made me scream his name with his tongue, he grabs a condom, rolls me onto my stomach, and grips my hips while he takes me from behind.
I have never—ever—in my entire life—been so thoroughly fucked.
“You’re going to break me,” he murmurs after he’s collapsed beside me on the bed, both of us spent from coming again.
Again.
The man’s given me four orgasms in an hour.
Good thing I’m off tomorrow.
I might not be able to walk.
“Who’s breaking who?” I murmur back.
He shifts, grunting as he moves. The room plunges into darkness, and then he’s pulling me against him.
“Rhys?” I whisper.
