Blown Away (A Romantic Comedy) (Five More Wishes Book 1) Read Free Page B

grabbed me around the waist and dragged me up, too. I melted against him, letting him carry my weight. He stared me down with his blue eyes that had turned dark as night. He was definitely a man on a mission. I held his gaze. I was swirling around in a cloud of hormones so powerful that it must have been illegal under the Geneva Convention’s rules against chemical warfare. I had gone over to the dark side, and I didn’t want to return.
    I wrapped my arms around his neck and lifted up on my tippy toes in order to reach him. I nibbled his earlobe and blew gently in his ear. He moaned, and his cargo shorts strained against the pressure, ready to explode. He dropped one hand and pushed it across the desk, sending everything on it crashing onto the floor. Then, he grabbed me once again by the waist and threw me onto the desk. I landed with a crash and a loud oomph, but he kissed me silent.
    I would have bruises for a week, but at the time, I was feeling no pain.
    My legs separated, and I kicked off my shoes, sending them flying across the office. My hand went to his button and zipper, freeing him, and his hands lifted up my skirt and cleverly pulled at the elastic on my panties, slipping a finger along my slick folds and into my wet core.
    I might have screamed… I don’t remember. Whatever it was, I’m certain I made a lot of noise, and who could blame me? I had gone from zero to a hundred-and-fifty in the fast lane. If I had been at the Indy 500, I would have blown them all away.
    My hormones were exploding all over my body, but I wanted them to explode even more. More. Bigger. Faster. I grabbed at him, urging him to press forward.
    This would have been an opportune moment for me to remember my eighth grade sex ed course. What had Mrs. Sullivan told the class? Something about condoms and birth control. Something about diseases that could make body parts fall off.
    And something about pregnancy.
    I got an A in sex ed class. I wrote a poem about periods in iambic pentameter that blew Mrs. Sullivan away. But at the moment when my legs were wrapped around Cade’s waist and the tip of his penis was teasing me in the best way possible, I completely forgot that Mrs. Sullivan ever existed. I couldn’t recall a single blue hair on her head or a single one of her dire warnings about genital warts or colicky babies.
    All I could think of was…
    “Hurry! Give it to me! Take me! Harder! Yes! Yes! Yes!”
    I grabbed at Cade furiously, pushing my hips up toward him, and he lifted my blouse and palmed my breast. I didn’t shut up until he entered me and after that I just gurgled like I was having a seizure, and maybe I was. It was the best feeling ever. If I could have walked around for the rest of my life with Cade’s penis in my vagina I would have been a happy woman, indeed. No need for a Pulitzer. No need to win the lottery or to lose the cellulite on the back of my thighs. All I needed to make me happy as a clam was his big circumcised wiener that filled me up completely and knocked against my cervix, like it was wondering if anyone was home.
    Speaking of a clam, my clam spasmed while Cade began to thrust. He leaned down, and kissed me, this time with an intense passion. I squirmed against him, my body in a hurry to climax. But he was taking his time, like he was eating a four-course meal by candlelight, whereas I was in the McDonald's drive-thru chowing down on a Quarter Pounder.
    He wouldn’t be rushed. He entered me slowly until our pelvises ground against each other, and then he retracted until he was almost out of me, entirely. Over and over and over, but every so slowly. When he was done with my mouth, he kissed his way down to my breasts and savored them, too. My body was on fire. I didn’t know how he could stand the heat from touching my burning skin. He should have been wearing oven mitts or at least have had a fire extinguisher handy.
    “Cade,” I moaned, drawing out his name into three syllables. I was melting