Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
I imagine myself at thirty-eight, fifty-eight, then with long white hair like my Irish gran, the other redhead in the family. I see myself working on my entry for the pudding competition, while Olly putters around the kitchen making coffee, teasing me about my thin chance at victory, sneaking a quick squeeze of my ass as he reaches for the mugs.
“What are you thinking, darling Darling?” Oliver asks as Bing Crosby fades and Judy Garland’s voice fills the room.
It’s “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”
As if summoned by my thoughts…
The answer to his question sits on my tongue, dangerous and ready: That you feel like home. That I already hate the thought of a holiday without you. That I’m pretty sure I’m still going to want your hands on me, even when I’m old and gray, and that I wish this night could go on forever…
“About this song, actually.” It’s partly true. “And how it makes me happy and sad and heartbroken and hopeful…all at the same time.”
His chest vibrates beneath my cheek as he hums in recognition. “Whoever wrote it knew, didn’t they? That pain comes when it comes. Even at Christmas.”
“And that love sometimes makes the pain worse before it makes it better.”
“The deeper the love, the deeper the loss,” he murmurs. “But how lucky we are to love like that.”
“Yes,” I agree, my throat tightening as I lift my head. “I’m sorry.”
“Why?” he asks, a sad smile curving his lips.
“I didn’t mean to remind you of hard things,” I say. “I know this is a difficult Christmas for you and your family.”
“Stop. I’ve been thinking about Dad a lot tonight. It almost feels like he’s here. And happy to see us happy.” His voice catches as he adds, “He would have adored you, Red.”
Fighting a wave of emotion too intense for a British holiday party, I smile. “I wish I could have met him and told him he helped raise someone very special.”
His lips hook up on one side. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” I roll my eyes, hopefully throwing him off my increasingly sappy scent as I add, “It’s not every day you meet someone who, after just a few days, feels like a forever friend.”
“Almost six days now,” he corrects seriously. “But I agree. This sort of thing is rare. It’s never happened to me before, actually. If I’m honest, I wasn’t sure I believed it could happen.”
“Me either,” I whisper, pulse beating faster in my throat.
If I didn’t know better, I would think he was about to…
Could he be about to?
“But I confess, I don’t really think of you as a friend, Darling,” he says, that Olly playfulness creeping back into his tone, even as his gaze remains open and honest and locked on mine. “I think about your breasts far too often for that.”
I smile, relieved. It’s too soon—and we’ve had too much rum—for any big declarations.
But it’s exactly the right time to talk about boobs.
And other body parts…
“I think about your cock an awful lot, too,” I whisper, loving the way his jaw clenches in response. He makes dirty talk so much fun, I can’t resist adding, “And the fact that I didn’t get a chance to taste you the way you tasted me. Doesn’t seem fair, really.”
“It doesn’t,” he agrees, eyes glittering with excitement for the new game at hand. “What a lout I’ve been. Can you ever forgive me?”
“I don’t know,” I say with a shrug, playing along. “It’s selfish, really.”
“Wickedly selfish, Red, you’ll hear no arguments from me about that. But please, tell me what I can do to make amends? I simply must make things right between us.”
I exhale a heavy sigh. “Well, maybe if we’re in a cab in the next ten minutes…”
“Make it five.” He grabs my hand, making me laugh as he bolts for the door, dragging me along behind him.
Chapter Fifteen
OLIVER
The taxi drifts through quiet streets, its engine a low purr against the silence of London at one a.m. Frost glitters on the iron railings of Belgrave Square, and somewhere a church bell chimes the hour, clear and somber in the cold air.
Emily doesn’t speak.
Neither do I.
All our jokes evaporated as we tumbled into the cab.
It was as if we both suddenly realized how quickly we’ll be home, alone with feelings neither of us knows quite what to do with.
We need to talk.
Frankly. Seriously.
But preferably after we do wicked things to each other in my bed.
I can’t wait to touch her. Everywhere. I’ve been at least a little—sometimes a lot—hard since we left the solarium. Since I had my hand up her skirt, feeling how wet she was for me.
For me. Mine. Fuck, I want her to be mine. She brings savage, caveman levels of possessiveness rising inside of me every time we leave the apartment.
The old guy at the museum with a soft spot for redheads?