Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 83800 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83800 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
I watch as a sleep-mussed Robert walks into the kitchen with unfocused eyes. He rubs his naked chest before letting that massive hand of his trail downward to adjust his privates. His pajama pants are made of thin cotton, and much like his swim trunks last night, they don't leave much to the imagination. It feels like Christmas, my birthday, and New Year's all rolled into one.
I'm standing here watching as if the guy is putting on a show he willingly sold tickets to. Does he own a damn shirt? Not that I'm complaining, but it's going to be impossible to explain why my face is flushed if he asks.
"Shit," he says when his yawn is over, and he opens his eyes to find me standing there staring at him. "Sorry."
"I'm not," I manage before turning my attention back to the coffee pot.
As covert as I can manage, I literally run the back of my hand over my lips to make sure I'm not drooling because the guy is a perfect specimen of a man. His body, including those delicious strips of muscle at his hips, makes me insane. I've had my share of experiences with fit men, but I don't think I've ever allowed myself to fantasize about a man like him.
Had I seen Robert at the gym, walking around with one of those shirts that have so much of the sleeves cut away it looks like he's wearing a tank top, I would’ve scrunched my nose and found something better to do. Gym bros like that tend to watch themselves in the mirror more than contribute anything to those around them. I want a man who pays attention to me, not one who can't wait to see their own reflection.
Having gotten to know Robert better, I know for a fact that he's a funny, caring guy who has interests outside of how he looks without a shirt on.
"I didn't expect anyone to be up so early," he says, his voice raspy and still tinted with sleep.
Jesus, what would this man sound like while still in bed as he rolls over with a smile and tells the woman there with him good morning?
"I couldn't sleep," I confess, praying he doesn't ask me what's causing my restlessness because, with how fried my brain is right now, I just might tell him the truth. "Plus, I like to get to the office early. I hate being in a rush."
He gives me a gentle smile, and I struggle to keep my eyes on him rather than letting them drop lower than his chin. But I'll be damned if the man doesn't have a shadow of scruff on his jawline that makes my fingers itch with the need to touch him.
"Coffee?" I offer after pouring myself a cup and taking a step away from the machine.
"That doesn't have hardly enough caffeine to get me going," he says.
I pull in a too-hot sip of my drink to keep from offering a myriad of ways to wake him up. I swear this man makes my brain turn to nothing but sex. I consider the scorch on my tongue punishment for my inability to control my thoughts as I watch him step toward the fridge, the muscles in his back bunching and flexing as he moves.
"What do you want me to wear to your funeral?" I ask when he turns back around with a massive energy drink in his hand.
He looks down at the can, his smile weak. Then, as if considering the question, his eyes trail my body. I get the sense that it doesn't matter that I'm wearing a dress with sleeves down to my forearms and the hem sweeping the floor. It's as if he can see me in exactly what he's imagining, and I swear the front of his pajama pants begins to get tighter.
"Nothing," he whispers.
"Nothing?" I ask, wanting to get fully on board with that. Hell, forget work if there's something else I could be doing to keep my hands, mouth, and the rest of my body busy.
He shakes his head. "There will be no funeral."
I don't know whether to be disappointed or confused.
My lips fall open, need swimming inside of me, but before I can take a step in, a throat clears from across the room.
Roberts spins, putting his back toward the newcomer.
"You ready to head to work?" Bandera asks as he gives me that flat smile he always throws my way. I don't know if the man dislikes me or if he sees me as a nuisance, but either way, I get the distinct feeling that he isn't impressed with me in the slightest.
"I'm ready," I say, holding up the travel mug I prepared my coffee in. "If I promise to bring this back, is it okay to take it with me?"