Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Looking at the unmistakable bump in the crotch of his shorts, I lift a brow. “I think the word you’re after is blue.”
“Well played.” He widens his stance so I can get up if I choose, but he doesn’t get out of my way. Not in the slightest. “If you don’t feel self-assured sexually, then you’ve never had great sex.”
“I’ve had plenty of great sex,” I counter. “I just feel a little . . . unsure about myself. That happens sometimes to regular people that don’t have the entire population throwing themselves at your feet.”
“If you’ve been having great sex, you wouldn’t be unsure about yourself,” he contends. “Great sex makes you feel good about yourself. It gives you way more than an orgasm. It gives you . . . pride. Confidence. It builds you up mentally as much as physically.”
“This is getting deep,” I laugh.
He rests his head against the cushion and looks at me. “You can’t have mind-blowing sex without involving the mind. It seems whoever you’ve been fucking doesn’t know the first thing about that.”
“I haven’t been fucking anyone.”
“Since Callum?”
“Since Callum,” I confirm.
“How long ago was that?”
“Why do you care?”
“Just making conversation.”
“Seems like you’re prying, Mr. Best.”
Branch
I am prying. I’m prying so damn hard it hurts.
Tugging my bottom lip between my teeth, I grab onto the slice of self-control I have left. It’s waning, dangling on a spinning string that gets more difficult to hold on to with every flutter of her long eyelashes.
“What’s wrong with a little getting-to-know-you?” I ask.
“Nothing . . . if you ask the right questions.”
It’s not the answer she gives, but the way she gives it that makes me want to scoop her up and carry her inside and lock ourselves in a bedroom for the rest of the afternoon. She’s sweet as honey and as sinful as the day is long.
Narrowing my eyes, I drag a fingertip across the top of her thigh. “Are you turned on right now?”
“I’m not answering that,” she breathes.
“You don’t have to. I already know the answer.”
“Oh, you do, do you?”
“It seems,” I say, trailing my finger up her torso, across her pebbled nipple, and up the side of her throat, “that your body is a little more honest than you are.”
“I didn’t say yes or no. I said I wasn’t answering.”
“Okay, you want to do a visual representation. I can do that. It’s like instead of discussing the formation of the play, we’re going to do a walk-through.”
She laughs, but lets me take her hand and pull her to her feet. We stand inches from one another, her head coming up right beneath my chin, as she looks up at me with her bright golden eyes sparkling.
“The question was,” I say, letting my hands go to her hips, “are you turned on right now?”
“I thought you already knew the answer?” She does that eyelash flutter thing again and I feel like I’m going to explode. “My turn.”
“For what?” I say as I lift the edges of her shirt up just enough so my hands can wrap around her waist. Her body is soft, her skin warm, and the way she moves under my touch has me breathing much harder than necessary.
“For me to ask the questions.”
The little vixen wrapped in an angel’s façade takes her hand and touches the side of my face. The back of her hand runs down my jawline, the scraping sound from my unshaven face zipping through the air.
Her eyes don’t leave mine as she traces a line down my throat, over my shoulder, and across my pecs before dropping down the ridges of my abs.
“Are you turned on?” she asks.
“I’ve been turned on since you stepped out of the car yesterday.”
She grins as I run my hands up her sides, feeling the soft, round curve of her body.
“What do you propose we do about this state we’re in?” she asks.
“I think we have a couple of options. One, we can take ten giant steps back and then you go inside and I’ll go down by the lake and we stay apart until your brother gets home.”
“I don’t think that’ll work,” she says. “I’ll just watch you from my window while I touch myself and I—”
My mouth captures hers before she can finish her sentence. Her lips part, her hands go to my hair, not at all fazed by my sudden ferocity. I can’t take it. There’s no way I can handle tiptoeing around this woman that makes me crazy any longer.
I cup her face in both hands, holding her face still so I can kiss the hell out of her. She tastes of tea and summertime, of heat and arousal, and the longer our mouths move against each other, the more I want—of her kisses, of her body, of her.
Fuck. Me.