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)
Whatever it is, it catches the light every time I move, drawing his gaze to places I know he’s already imagined his hands.
Spaghetti straps. Bare shoulders. A neckline that dips low enough to make him reconsider the entire concept of this foolish game.
And the back? Practically nonexistent. Just one thin strap across the shoulder blades, leaving the rest of my skin on full display, glowing warm under the rooftop lights.
He swallows hard. Adjusts his collar again.
I pretend not to notice. But I notice everything.
“What if I told you I wasn’t wearing underwear?”
He blinks.
Like his brain has officially short-circuited.
Then he exhales through his nose and mutters, “Ah. So we’re playing dirty tonight? Nice.”
I smile behind my glass and shrug, taking another sip. “What? I’m just making conversation about my clothing.”
Or lack of it.
Turner shifts in his chair like it’s personally betrayed him. “Right. So, uh… hockey.”
I arch a brow, amused. “Are we talking about it or trying to use it as a distraction?”
He clears his throat. “Talking about it. I'm a professional athlete. I can talk about work.”
I bite back a grin. “Oh yeah? What position do you play again?”
His jaw tightens. “You know what position I play.”
I tap my chin. “Do I?”
He is so sexy when he’s irritated, leaning back on the stool as if he’s trying to put space between us. It’s not working. His legs are spread, one knee is bouncing, and I’m practicing all my self-control not to let my eyes stray to the center of his thighs.
“I hit hard,” he says, voice low and rough. “I like control.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re a teddy bear.”
Always so gentle with me. And sweet.
It’s been part of his charm and what I find so irresistible. On the other hand, he fucks hard. Goes down on me like it’s his job, and briefly I let my eyes close as I remember the last time his head was between my legs and his mouth—
“Teddy bear?”
I clear my throat. “I mean… with your words. You say nice things. Compliment my brain. Offer me bites of your dessert.”
He smirks, slow and lethal. “But?”
“But,” I sigh, setting down my wine glass carefully. “Maybe you’re right. You’re not exactly soft when you’ve got my legs over your shoulders and your face buried between them.” Licking. Sucking.
Ugh!
“So work is good?” I shift again, like that’ll help. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.
“Yup. How ‘bout you? How’s the new job treating you?”
My dress slides higher on my thighs. His eyes flick down. Snap back up.
Focus, Poppy.
“The new job is great.” I’m unable to remember a single task I’ve done in the last week that didn’t involve fantasizing about this man in very specific and sexual ways. “I have a corner office. A coffee machine. Benefits. Bagels—it’s very adult-like.”
Turner nods, expression neutral. “That’s awesome.”
We stare at each other.
Neither one of us is thinking about work.
I swirl the ice in my glass. “Not to brag but I put wallpaper up in my office.”
I love office supplies, paper, and highlighter pens, even though I have no actual need for them most days. Who doesn’t?! Seriously. Give me a tape dispenser every day of the week and I’m in heaven.
“Yesterday I ordered a gold stapler and gold scissors,” I add, like it’s a personal triumph. “Very classy. Very executive.”
Turner’s lips twitch. “Have you always had a thing for tools?”
“Only shiny ones.” I meet his eyes over the rim of my glass.
It lands. He shifts in his seat again, one hand moving to adjust the collar of his shirt like it’s suddenly too tight. His gaze drops to my mouth, lingers.
“What does the wallpaper look like?” he asks, but I can tell it’s half-hearted. He’s trying to keep us on track.
He’s failing.
“It’s black and cream floral toile and there are hidden messages in it that only I can see when I’m looking at it, like, not today Satan. It’s amazing.”
That earns a low laugh from his throat, but it dies fast—because now I’m dragging my finger around the rim of my glass and his eyes lock on it like it’s the most erotic thing he’s ever seen.
“Do you miss living with me?” I ask, too casually.
His smile disappears. “Of course.”
My stomach flips. I didn’t expect him to admit it so fast. So readily.
“Do you?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, my voice quieter now. “More than I want to admit to myself.”
Turner exhales slowly, his gaze softening for a second, and I forget we’re playing a game…
Almost.
His eyes drop back to my mouth. Then lower. Then all the way back up like he’s trying to stay above water, but I’ve already dragged him under.
“I miss you,” he says. “In my space. In my bed. The way you smell. The way you hum when you’re looking through the kitchen cabinets.”
I hum when I’m looking through the kitchen cabinets?