Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
“Now, if you’re going to apologize, at least sound sorry,” I say quietly, and she audibly breathes in some patience.
“I’m sorry.”
I look at her reflection. “Are you?”
“Yes, I’m sorry.”
She’s not sorry. She’s giving me lip service, but that’s how much she wants me all over her skin. “You want me to touch you?”
“Yes.”
I move in and crush her body against the wall. Breathless, she stares up at me. “You’re beginning to understand, aren’t you?”
“I understand,” she agrees on a wheeze.
I kiss her hard, feeling her short nails sinking into my flesh, and I make up for the many kisses I deprived her of this morning. “Happy?” I ask, and she sighs, relaxing against the wall.
“Yes.”
“Me too.” I drop a gentle peck on her forehead and take her hand as the doors slide open. “Let’s go.” I slip my shades back on, looking over my shoulder as we pass through the foyer. She’s grinning. Fuck, I love that grin. I need to keep that smile on her face all day. Make this a date she’ll never forget. I feel like I’m winning already.
I open the door of my Aston, sweep my arm out in gesture for her to get in, and bend to pull her seatbelt across. She doesn’t murmur a word of protest, letting me do my thing. The clip locks in place, and I pull back, my face close to hers. She smiles demurely, and I return it, running my tongue across my bottom lip. She hears my silent demand, pushing her mouth onto mine. Another kiss. Slow, soft, calm, but full of purpose.
“You’re a good kisser,” she mumbles.
“I know.” I move my mouth to her cheek and playfully bite, and she laughs, the sound dreamy.
* * *
My day is planned out meticulously. Breakfast at a place that serves the best of Ava’s favorite, a stroll holding hands, and then home to make mad sweet love. It’s a beautiful day. The sun is beaming down, the breeze mild, and I’m with my favorite person. I glance across the car at her when I’ve pulled up outside the bistro, and she gives me another smile. She’s full of them since we made friends in the elevator. I never want to be the person who takes those smiles away.
I swallow and eject myself from my Aston, collecting her and guiding her toward the bistro. “You’ll love it here,” I say, offering her a chair. “We’ll sit outside.”
“Why will I love it?”
“They do the best Eggs Benedict.”
The delight on her face is endearing, as is the waitress’s when she approaches. I place our order and once we’re alone again, I refocus all my attention on Ava. “How are your legs?”
“Fine. Do you run often?”
I get comfortable, seeing a million questions in her dark eyes. “It distracts me.”
“Distracts you from what?”
“You.” That’s a lie. Nothing distracts me from her, but I can appreciate my infatuation isn’t healthy—always wanting more time with her—and Ava’s in full control of that side of our relationship.
She snorts. “Why do you need distracting from me?”
“Because, Ava . . .” My exhale is heavy. Tired. Doesn’t she get it? “I can’t seem to stay away from you and, even more of a worry, I don’t want to.”
I expect at least some shock in response, and yet she just stares at me. She does get it. So why does she constantly rebuff me? She dangles herself like a carrot, denying me even the smallest nibble, when what I actually need—and she knows it—is a huge fucking bite.
“Why would that be worrying?” She busies herself with something, and I look down seeing our coffees have been delivered to the table. And there’s my point. I didn’t even notice because . . . her. I scowl at myself when I bite too hard on my lip. She’s waiting for an answer. What on earth do I say?
I have to look away from her for a moment, unable to face the concern on her face. It’s a hint of what’s to come. “It’s worrying because I feel out of control,” I blurt, giving her the truth. “Feeling out of control is not something I do well, Ava.” Terribly, in fact. There’s a part of me that copes so much better when she is around. And there’s another part of me that completely sinks. I have to fight my compulsions. “Not where you’re concerned.”
“If you were more reasonable,” she says, her voice quiet, as if she’s afraid to speak up, “you wouldn’t feel out of control.” Her lashes flicker when she blinks at me, her fingers toying with the edge of her coffee cup. Reasonable. Yes, let’s talk about being reasonable, but before I can open my mouth, she goes on. “Are you like this with all of your women?”
The fuck? All of my women? Does she actually think this is normal behavior for me?