Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
His eyes kept mine hostage for a handful of seconds, his body teasing mine with its proximity before he stepped back and left the room.
I stayed there, glued to the wall for longer than I cared to admit.
I tossed and turned the entire night, second-guessing my words to Beau. Was I too forward? Not forward enough?
If I had pushed him further, I might’ve got what I wanted. His lips on mine. His body on mine, a memory tangible and real to hold on to as evidence that Beau liked me. Wanted me. As if his words weren’t enough. Oh, they were plenty to give me proof. But it turned out I was a greedy bitch. I wanted more.
I lay, staring at the ceiling, intensely aware that Beau was in bed just down the hall.
The brazen, sex-starved temptress inside of me urged me to get out of bed and walk the short distance to his bedroom now that I knew he wanted me. I no longer had just a collection of half-imagined looks that could be explained away. No, I had words. I had the image of him tearing his hands through his hair, as if he were holding himself together by a thread.
I had the inferno in his eyes, the heavy rise and fall of his chest as he stared at my lips as if he were going to kiss me. I had those sensual words that repeated over and over again in my head.
If I crept into his room, there was a high probability I would get what I wanted. Beau wasn’t a monk; he was trying to do the right thing, but he wasn’t an entirely good man. That’s what I liked about him. He made good decisions that trumped his baser impulses.
But I couldn’t.
Not after he mentioned Clara. The possibility of hurting her.
If I went into Beau’s room, I’d most definitely get the best sex of my life. But he’d regret it. Because he’d made the decision not to kiss me out of some misguided attempt to preserve my innocence. I was more than willing to override that.
What I couldn’t override was his belief that kissing me, fucking me—covering me in his cum—would somehow hurt Clara.
And I wouldn’t be party to that.
So I stayed in bed. Frustrated. Confused. Elated. Tortured.
I eventually fell into a fitful sleep.
And dreamed of Beau.
twenty-one
HANNAH
How did one act around one’s boss who used to hate you but then described how he’d love to cover your body in his cum?
The eternal question.
Much the same as you had before the “cum” comment, it seemed. Or at least that was what Beau did.
My stomach was swirling with butterflies when I entered the kitchen the next morning. I’d slept in, only because I’d stayed up so late tossing and turning, contemplating creeping down the hallway into Beau’s bed, despite his noble intentions. Despite my own.
I only lapsed into unconsciousness in the wee hours after making myself come to the thoughts of Beau’s hands, his almost scarily large cock—if the shape underneath his jeans was to be believed.
My limbs felt heavy, my brain foggy, as if I had a hangover. Beau was his own form of intoxication, far less dangerous than alcohol. Or far more. I couldn’t decide. I guessed it depended on whether he considered me a quick fuck or a whole future.
Which did I consider him?
That’s what scared me the most.
Clara was already up, swinging her legs at the breakfast bar, eating oatmeal. Beau was in the kitchen, stirring something in a pot.
“Good morning, Banana,” Clara said with her mouth full.
I gave her my entire attention, though it was tough because my body, my eyes, my entire existence wanted to gravitate toward Beau. I couldn’t stop remembering the taste of his lips on my tongue, his scent imprinting on my skin, the wild hunger in his eyes. The feeling of being looked at like that.
“Good morning, Blueberry.” I managed a warm smile for Clara despite the heaviness of my mood. Because I couldn’t simply experience the elation of finding out someone I wanted, wanted me back. Not when that person had been making my life a living hell for months. Beau wanted me, and for some fucked-up reason, he’d been being a complete asshole to me to try to mask it.
That was seriously juvenile and problematic in many ways. I should not have just melted for him the second he showed me positive attention. I should not have wanted him back. At the very least, I should’ve made him work for it. Made him grovel.
I should’ve shoved down my feelings, not allowing myself to get tangled up with a man with the ability to treat me so callously, whatever his intentions.
A strong cocktail of regret, respect, sadness, and happiness hit me like a train as I observed Clara’s easy smile. Her carefree joy.