Page 7 of The Pretender
I watch as he tugs the hoodie he’s wearing over his head. Shoot. I sleep naked, and even if I wanted pajamas of some kind, I don’t have anything packed in my carry-on bag.
“Uh, I’m gonna have to sleep in my underwear. My stuff is in my luggage.”
Balt nods, glancing at the floor briefly, then back at me. “Same. Guess we’ll get to know each other tonight.”
Biting my bottom lip, I nod as I work on removing my jeans. Since he’s gonna be my fake boyfriend, maybe blowing himbefore bed wouldn’t be so weird. It’s been ages, and frankly, I’d love to move on from my ex physically.
I should pull my hungry gaze away from the handsome man as he peels his clothes off, taking time to fold and stack them on top of the small dresser, but I can’t. He’s spectacular.
I remove the rest of my clothes and hurry to climb under the bedding while Balt seems to take his time, strutting towards me like a model on a runway. His briefs are tight, and if I’m not mistaken, that’s a pretty decent bulge between his legs.
He pulls the bedding back on his side and gets in, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. In a second, he’ll probably suggest we turn off the lights and get some sleep. It’s now or never.
“Balt?”
“Yeah?”
“Would you be interested in a blow job?”
He makes a choking noise and turns his head to face me. “What?”
“I’m in the mood.”
His mouth opens and closes twice before he huffs a small laugh. “Are you sure?”
I nod, reaching out to touch his chest and the soft sprinkling of dark hair across it. “Oh, I’m sure. You don’t have to do anything back if you don’t want to. It’s good stress relief for me.”
His eyes heat as he studies my face. “I’m game.”
THREE
balthazar
Maybe this nightis gonna end much better than it started. A blow job would be the perfect way to get my troubles off my mind. I really can’t believe my luck. What started out as a potential disaster is turning out nicely.
Deo rolls onto his side, smiling devilishly at me as he strokes my chest. “What a surprise tonight, huh?”
“Definitely.” Reaching out, I brush my thumb across his chin, admiring the delicate slopes and curves of his face. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-four. You?”
“Forty-one.”
“Birthday?”
“May eleventh. You?”
He scrunches his nose. “February sixteenth.”
“Why do you look unhappy about that?”
“Well, you’re a Taurus and I’m an Aquarius.”
“Uh-huh. What does that mean?”
“You don’t know?” He scoots a little closer, his expression shifting to excitement. “I’m an air sign and you’re earth. So I’m guessing you like routine and stability. Am I right?”
“Basically.”
