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)
Instead, they go to my cock and attempt, in vain, to smooth it out. The movement catches her attention and she shoots upright.
“Branch!” she exclaims, a hand going to the base of her throat. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“How do you think I got the Most Valuable Player title last year?” I wink. “I’m quick.”
A smile plays coyly on her lips. “Noted.”
Our gazes lock together somewhere over the marble island separating us as her innuendo becomes apparent. It’s all I can do not to think about her body beneath mine, my palms memorizing the curve of her hip, the bow of the small of her back.
“I’m also very good with my hands,” I add.
“So I see.” She tries to hide her grin as she brushes her line of sight down my body and to my hand resting on my now throbbing cock, then back to my face.
A smile tugs at my lips as she laughs, a soft, unpretentious giggle. “That’s not helping anything, Sunshine.”
I stride across the kitchen, looking around as discreetly as I can and am relieved that I don’t see Poppy. A little one-on-one with this girl is the perfect way to kick start a weekend to remember.
Taking a seat across the island from Layla, every effort is made not to pant at the sight of her ample tits filling out her skintight shirt.
“Sunshine?” she asks, leaning against the counter.
“Your hair,” I say, working on a whim. “It reminds me of the sun.”
“My hair is a dirty dishwater blonde. Not so sunny.”
“But there are blonder streaks,” I say, feeling my cheeks heat. “Anyway, what are you doing? You have a little bit of everything here.”
Sorting through the various items, I hope my attempt at distraction works. “Sunglasses, lip stuff, medicine, a tampon,” I say, holding up the slender package.
She rips it out of my hands. “Give me that.”
“Words every man wants to hear,” I crack, watching the apples of her cheeks turn a couple of shades of red. “I’ve had two interactions with you so far and you’ve been feisty in both. I’m guessing this is a thing with you.”
“Apparently.”
“I like it.”
She flips her gaze back to me. This time it’s softer, a bit of hesitation in her golden eyes. “It’s gotten me in trouble a time or two in my life.”
“Trouble’s not a bad thing, you know.”
“Said from the man who won Best Baller Bad Boy from Exposé Magazine a couple of months ago,” she laughs.
“Ah, so you do know who I am,” I tease. “I was afraid there for a minute.”
“I bet you were terrified.” She lifts a wallet off the counter and plucks up a small, circular tin. “Found it!”
“What is it?”
“It’s lip balm, but not just any lip balm,” she says, opening the lid. “It’s the best honey-based balm in the universe and I thought I’d lost it.”
She slides a finger along the top of the container, and then, like a vixen I didn’t quite have her pegged to be, rolls it along her bottom lip.
“That’s not helping either,” I groan, my hand going to my lap. “I tell you what—your brother has you all wrong.”
Smacking her lips together, the sound echoing around the room, she tosses the tin down again. “How’s that?”
“What? Your lips? They’re fucking amazing.”
“No,” she laughs. “How does my brother have me all wrong?”
“He talks about you like you’re this harmless, helpless little thing. I’d venture to say you’re neither.”
“I’d venture to say you’re right.”
I sift through the mess in front of me again, wondering what else there is to know about Ms. Layla James Miller. Spotting a business card propped against a hairbrush, I pick it up.
“Give me that,” she says, reaching for it.
There’s a level of panic in her voice that only makes me more curious. Leaning back in the seat, I bring the off-white card to my face. “Logan Curie, Sex Therapist.”
I almost drop the damn card.
“Give me that, Branch.”
I don’t. I look at it again. The words have not changed.
There’s a streak of alarm hidden just below the surface of her lit-up eyes and high cheekbones that prickles something in my chest. There are a million questions on the tip of my tongue and a million-plus-one offers I’m willing to make to cure whatever ails may have her seeing a sex therapist. But there’s something in the horror she’s trying to hide that keeps me from it.
I hand her the card.
“Go ahead,” she says, refusing to look at me as she shuffles the discarded items back into an oversized yellow bag. “Ask.”
“I have nothing to ask.”
“Yes, you do,” she snorts. “Just do it so we can move on.”
“You don’t have to tell me anything,” I say, grabbing a couple of almonds out of a dish in front of me and popping them into my mouth.
A hefty sigh passes those lips I want to lick as she hangs her head. “We’re going to be here all weekend. I don’t want to look at you and see the questions in your eyes every time, okay? Just ask me and let’s get this over with.”