Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
I scrub a hand over my face, staring up at the ceiling, chest heaving, trying to get my goddamn heartbeat under control.
It doesn’t work.
Nothing works.
Because all I can think about is how soft she was. How hot. How tight. The way she rode me like she couldn’t get enough, her tits bouncing, her eyes locked onto mine, her lips parted in those breathless little moans that made my cock harder than it’s ever been in my life.
Jesus Christ.
I turn my head and look at her again. She’s still asleep, one hand tucked under her cheek, her lips parted, her brows drawn together like she’s dreaming.
Of me?
God, I hope so.
Because all I can think about is how fucking good it felt to bury myself inside her, to feel her pulse around me, to watch her fall apart on my cock, her nails clawing down my back, her thighs squeezing my hips, her breathy little cries filling the room.
I swallow, my throat dry, my cock twitching against my thigh because apparently, I’m a goddamn masochist who can’t get enough of her.
But what now? What the fuck do we do now? Do I wake her up? Ask her if she wants coffee?
Pretend like we didn’t just fuck each other’s brains out?
Yeah, right.
Because now that I’ve had her, I want her again. And again. And again.
I want her on her knees. On her back. Bent over the goddamn counter.
I want to hear her say my name again. Want to see those pretty eyes roll back in her head as she comes all over my tongue.
But…
Not just that.
I like Poppy—actually like her. As in: I could fall in love with her. As in: I may already be halfway there.
Fuck my life.
poppy
. . .
Ikick my shoes off in the entryway and toss my keys into the little bowl on the table—only to miss it completely and hear them clatter onto the floor behind it. Typical.
The good news: my first day at my new job was a success. I didn’t get frustrated and lose my cool. I didn’t get locked out of the system I was literally hired to help secure, and they had a Big Apple Bagel bar in the staff break room. Full spread. Blueberry, asiago, everything, plain, cinnamon raisin—the works. One of the IT guys showed me the secret stash of flavored cream cheese he keeps hidden in the back fridge.
Not bad!
“I’m home!” I call out, expecting the usual silence or maybe the sound of Turner clicking together LEGO pieces or Cash shouting at his Play Station like a giant child.
Instead, I get...
“Hi.”
A voice. A female voice.
I freeze in the middle of peeling off my jacket, blink twice, and slowly turn on my heels toward the living room.
There, perched on the edge of our stupidly expensive leather couch, is a young woman.
A young woman I don’t know.
A very beautiful young woman I don’t know.
She’s holding her phone and watching me, all dewy-skinned and delicate, like she’s the kind of person who applies sunscreen and drinks nine billion gallons of water per day and walks twice as many steps.
Her long legs are tucked beneath her, her long brown ponytail is shiny and thick, and her sweatshirt and bike shorts are casual in that effortless way that says, flirty. Cute. Young.
“Oh,” I say dumbly. “Hi.”
She smiles. “Hey! You must be Poppy.”
Okay. Alarming.
I glance around like Turner or Cash might be hiding behind the kitchen island, waiting to yell Surprise! One of your roommates brought home a hot stranger!
Who is she?
Why is she here?
Why is she wearing Turner’s hoodie?
My stomach immediately begins to churn with something I’m none-too familiar with: jealousy? Dread?
“I’m waiting for Turner,” she explains. “He’s in the bathroom.”
“Ahh.” It comes out a little too high-pitched, like someone stepped on a rubber duck.
She beams at me like this is a perfectly normal situation—just a random Monday afternoon hangout with a mystery girl in my living room wearing not-my-boyfriend’s clothes.
“Hope you don’t mind me hanging out here while I wait. He’s been in there forever—don’t know what he’s doing.” She snorts. “When I got here he was building that castle he’s been working on for like, ages.”
I nod, wanting to walk away from this conversation but not wanting to be rude.
It’s not rude to walk away, I scold myself. SHE IS NOT YOUR GUEST. SHE IS HIS.
The words rattle around in my skull like a ping pong ball in a dryer.
Not mine.
Not even a baby bit mine.
I make a noise that could mean anything—agreement, acknowledgement, a cry for help—my eyes darting toward the bedroom hallway.
“Oh, and—get this—he cut himself with a box cutter trying to trim a cardboard box ten minutes ago. That’s why he’s in the bathroom. He said it wasn’t bad, but I swear, if there’s blood on that hoodie, I’m going to make him buy me a new one.”