Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
And in that heat, something builds. Something dangerous. Something that hums low and needy in my belly.
“There,” he says finally, loosening the grip on my lower back, his free hand brushing the curve of my spine. “That ought to teach you to hit your word count. Hmm?”
But no.
It doesn’t teach me anything.
If anything, it ignites me.
I need more. I crave it. My body is screaming for release that I somehow know is just on the other side of this edge.
But he stops, then pulls me into his lap, cradling me, my skin still burning hot against him. His arms wrap around me, grounding me in the aftershocks.
I look up at him, my cheeks hot, my eyes unfocused.
“Now then,” he says softly. “Are you going to hit your word count today?”
I nod, swallowing hard. “Yes,” I whisper.
“Good girl,” he says again, with that same possessive pride in his tone.
Then his mouth dips close to my ear, his voice a delicious rasp.
“Let me ask you something else, Emma. Did that turn you on?”
I freeze.
“If I put my fingers into that tight, needy little cunt, would it be slick for me?”
I squirm, my breath catching.
Another swallow.
“Yes…”
He gives my red-hot ass an appreciative squeeze that makes me hitch in a breath.
“Good. I’ll keep that in mind. Finish those words, Emma.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Owen
Emma stands in the hallway, fidgeting with the hem of that too-thin sweater. The one that makes it impossible not to imagine what my hands would feel like slipping beneath it. It's ivory, soft from years of wear, and so threadbare I can see the delicate slope of her shoulders beneath it, like a secret begging to be uncovered.
She looks up at me from beneath those thick lashes, cheeks flushed the prettiest shade of pink. “I did it,” she says proudly.
“Good girl.”
It comes out automatically, unthinking, and she soaks in the praise like a cat stretching into a patch of sunlight. She inhales through her nose, slow and deep, then exhales like she’s trying to hold onto the moment just a little longer, her eyes hopeful and soft.
Goddamn. Makes me want to do it again.
“Mmm. Something smells good. What is that?”
I’ve seen the hard edges she’s adopted for survival soften in the short time we’ve been with each other already.
“Lunch,” I say, with a casual shrug.
The Owen she used to know lived off boxed mac and cheese and frozen pizza. Her smirk is knowing, a tease. “You?”
I nod with a crooked grin. “I’ve got a taste for more adult things these days.”
She smiles and wraps her arms around herself like she’s still trying to protect herself. Is it me she’s afraid of? Or is it the vulnerability? Maybe it’s the part of her that still hasn’t decided if I’m safe to want.
I hope it’s that. Feckin’ hell, I hope it’s that.
You and me both, Em. You and me both.
“But, I have to admit,” I say, smiling, “I’ve never found a chicken nugget I didn’t like.”
She laughs, her eyes lighting up. “Oh god. Even those… fast food ones?”
I nod solemnly. “Especially those. If I can dip them into one of those tiny packets of sweet and sour sauce? Heaven.”
She shrugs, lips tilting. “Your Irish ancestors are turning in their graves. Eh, maybe nostalgia runs deep.”
The words hang between us, suspended in the air like something heavy and sweet and aching.
“Nostalgia runs deep,” I echo. “It does, doesn’t it?”
I glance up—her gaze has drifted to the mistletoe I strung above the doorway to her room. Her breath catches.
She’s catching on. Smart girl.
I nod, serious. “House rule. You don’t pass through one unless I decide what you owe.”
Her lips part. I stare as her breath hitches. My god, I love doing this to her.
“Well, that’s not fair.”
“No,” I say, my voice low, deliberate. “It’s not.”
I reach up and gently brush a curl behind her ear. My fingers linger. I do it with intention, savoring the way she shivers beneath my touch.
“I never said it was fair.”
I step in, close enough that her back meets the doorframe. She stares up at me with that look—half-terrified, half aching. The one that makes something inside me snap.
Her lips part. “So what’ll it be this time?”
“This time?” I murmur, leaning in. “A kiss.”
“Just a kiss? A boring old kiss?”
Just a kiss. That’s what I tell myself.
As if kissing her is anything but magical.
My voice is a bit husky when I lean in close. “I need to warm you up, don’t I?”
She swallows and tilts her head. Her eyes flicker, uncertain. I wonder if she still thinks of this as forbidden. If she still hears the word stepbrother like a curse. Thinks about the years we spent dancing around it, burying what we were under layers of guilt and expectation. Our parents. The fury. The judgment from people who never understood what it felt like to burn like this.