Judge Me by Abby Knox (ereader for textbooks .TXT) 📕

from earlier. Our first kisses were gentle, playful, and exciting. This kiss is a lover’s kiss, and it warms me everywhere. My cheeks heat, my heart pounds, and my sex trembles. His tongue plunges into my mouth, wrestling with mine as he pulls me on top of him on the bed.

This is it, Chloe. This is what you came here to do.

As we kiss with needy tongues, I slide my legs apart until my knees reach the mattress on either side of his hips. Phillip may be large in comparison to me, but he fits so comfortably between my legs. He groans into my mouth when I do what comes naturally: grind against that ever-lengthening steel rod pushing against my pelvis.

“Slow down, darling; we’re not ready for that yet.”

I whimper, “Yes, yes I am. Yes, we are.”

“You’re going to have to trust me on that. There’s no other word for it, but I’ll have to, er, stretch you out first.”

I nod, even though he can’t see it in the dark. “I know. It’s in books and…other things.”

He hums in mock surprise. “Oh, dear. What naughty books has my future wife been reading?”

When he says the phrase “my future wife,” it kicks up a hundred reactions in my body. The slick heat between my legs surely means I’m ready, no matter how big he thinks he is. “I prepared myself for…meeting you. I knew I would need to know how to…how to take you. And how to please you. I read things, and sometimes I watch porn. Studying my colleagues’ raunchy comedy doesn’t hurt either.”

This elicits a low rumble in his chest as he grips my face. Even lying beneath me, he owns my body with his passionate kiss.

“Good girl. And what sort do you watch?”

I bite my lip, not having expected this interrogation. “Um, well, I don’t know. I like to watch lots of different things.”

“And do you make yourself come when you watch lots of different things?”

I shake my head. “No. Never. Sometimes I’m so desperate it just happens. Sometimes in my sleep. But I never even touched myself. I wanted you to be the first.”

His body stills under me; his hands paused on my back. I wonder if I’ve said too much. Am I genuinely sick for holding back so much just for this one man?

The next thing I know, I’m under him, as easy as if he’s flipping a pancake. “Poppet,” he says, hissing in my ear, his hand cradling my neck. “You think far too highly of me.”

There’s no way that’s possible. “You don’t think highly enough of yourself.”

“If you only knew the things I need from you…”

“I want to turn on the light so I can see you,” I whisper.

“No,” he says sternly.

The strictness in his voice makes me tremble with need and nervousness. I can’t help but release a giggle. “But you’re so cute; I want to look at your sweet face.”

He growls and pulls his weight off of me, making me want to reach out to him and make him come back to me. “I am neither cute nor sweet.”

I feel his weight shift on the mattress as he sits upright. What I would give for him to take me fully right now, make me his, make so much noise in this cavernous space.

I sit up next to him and examine him in shadow. “Phillip Wildwood, I have been studying you for years. I can tell you with the certainty that you are gorgeous, and underneath that gruff exterior lies a sweet, mushy heart.”

He grunts. “Don’t kid yourself. There’s no mush in here.”

There’s a sound of his fist thumping his chest. I reach out and cover his hand with mine, then smooth my palm over the spot where his heart beats, pushing aside the lapels of his robe. “I feel it,” I say. “It beats in there.”

“It beats for no one and nothing until you showed up in my garden last night.”

“Tell me the truth, Phillip. Why am I here? Why did I make it through?”

He shifts, pivoting toward me. “What do you mean?”

Snortling, I say, “Come on. I’m a terrible baker. How did I get here?”

“Bright smile and persistence, I would wager.”

“Stop it,” I say. “Tell me the truth, or I’ll kick you out of this bed.” Good lord, I do not want to kick this man out of bed.

He heaves a heavy sigh, and then the truth comes out. “I saw your audition video. I wanted to meet you. I made sure you got through. I told them it didn’t matter what was on your audition tape; we needed you on the show.”

My hand still on his chest, Phillip circles my forearm with one beefy hand. I worry for a second he’s going to push me away, but instead, he hoists me onto his lap sideways, like Santa Claus. He holds me in his big bear arms, safe and secure, his warmth radiating into me. I don’t know how long we sit there like that, snuggled up in a mountain of luxurious pillows, kissing, petting, and talking, but I can say unequivocally it’s the best night of my life.

We kiss so much that I know now for sure I’ll discover a bruised lip in the morning. Our hands explore as much as can be explored without taking off our clothes. For the first time, I feel a man’s erection pressing against me. With my consent, anyway. I’m fascinated and aroused as I feel it grow longer, thicker, and stiffer every time I touch him over his pajama bottoms, but amazingly—and frustratingly—he refuses to let it go any further that night.

“Phillip,” I whine. “Please. I want you to rip my PJs off and stuff me like a Thanksgiving turkey.”

He laughs, then hums and helps himself to a handful of my breast, stroking my nipple into a stiff peak through my pajama top. “I prefer a Christmas goose to a Thanksgiving turkey, love. Better yet, think of me as the filling to your