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 did not know that.
I press my lips together, because I am not about to cry in a rooftop bar while wearing no underwear and flirting like I’m trying to get arrested.
I lean forward and say, “I miss how you smell after you shower.”
Warm skin. Clean soap. That faint hint of spice clinging to his wet collarbone. It always did me in. That scent used to cling to me, too, those nights we’d have sex and sleep together. To his sheets. My pillow. My skin hours after he’d touched me. Even now, just remembering it makes my thighs press together under the table.
His knee starts bouncing again, his body is begging for permission his brain won’t grant yet.
His fingers tighten around the glass.
I watch as his Adam’s apple bops up and down when he swallows.
“Do I really hum in the kitchen?” I set my hand on the tabletop, thrumming my fingers in a gentle rhythm.
“You hum when you’re focused,” he says, voice low and deliberate. “When you’re digging through the pantry looking for snacks. Or scrolling through takeout menus.” Turner smiles. “When you stand at the sink, waiting for the water to heat up.”
My heart aches. My body aches.
“I miss touching you,” he murmurs.
The air shifts as I suck in a sharp breath. “Oh? In what ways?”
I’m playing with fire and love how he responds.
“Take your pick.” His gaze flicks down to my legs. Lingers. “I remember the sound you made when I pushed your legs apart and tasted your pussy for the first time.” His grin is lazy. Positively evil. “I bet you’d still sigh when I kiss you. I bet you’d still gasp when I slide my hand between your thighs and find you wet.”
This conversation is so dangerous, especially since we agreed not to touch.
I swallow thickly. “Stop trying to butter me up so I’ll let you touch me.”
His smirk is slow and devastating. “Who said I needed to physically touch you to wreck you?”
Jesus.
My thighs clench.
His eyes flick down to the spot between my legs like he knows it’s wet. Like he knows his words are vibrating through my entire body.
The bastard.
“I could talk you through it,” he says, voice like warm honey and smoke. “Make you squirm in that chair. Right here. In public. In that sexy dress.”
I tilt my head. “You think you could make me come without touching me?”
Lord do I want him to try…
He nods. “I think… if I told you to cross your legs right now, you’d do it just to get some friction. Go ahead. Do it.”
My breath catches.
“Cross your legs,” he murmurs. “Tighter.”
I shift, slowly, deliberately—to prove I’m not doing it just because he told me to—but god, the pressure does feel so good. It makes me exhale through my nose and bite my lip.
“You’re soaked. Aren’t you?”
My lips part.
“I bet if I slipped my hand under that tiny little dress, I’d find you already dripping. Needy. Desperate to grind against my fingers.”
I squirm in my seat. “This isn’t fair.”
He chuckles. “Know what isn’t fair? The memory I have of you, standing in my kitchen, barely clothed. I had no idea who you were but all I thought about was sucking on your nipples, then dropping to my knees in front of you. Devouring you whole.”
Like he wants to do right now…
Suddenly, I’m compelled to give him a taste of his own medicine; he’s not the only one who has a way with words.
I lean in slowly, lips barely parted, voice sweet and sinful. “I remember you too,” I whisper. “That day Cash was at the table, and you came out of the bedroom, fresh out of the shower, towel slung low on your hips, water dripping down your chest. You were the filthiest fantasy I’ve ever had and if my thoughts had any power, that towel would have been on the floor.”
His smirk falters.
I smile.
“I remember thinking I wanted to drop to my knees,” I murmur. “Run my tongue along those deep V lines on your hips. Take your cock in my mouth and make you groan.”
My mouth waters as I lean in even closer—close enough for my breath to brush his skin. “I thought about it later that night, too. Closed my eyes and used my pink vibrator until I was biting my lip to stop myself from moaning.”
“Poppy,” he growls.
“Yes?”
“Get up.”
I blink. “Now?”
“Now.”
I lift my napkin, dab the corners of my mouth like I’m not seconds from combusting, and stand. Slowly. Deliberately. His eyes track every movement like they’re starving.
As I turn and walk away, hips swaying with intention, I don’t have to look back to know he’s following.
I can feel him.
And as I hit the elevator button with one manicured finger, I hear him come up behind me, close enough that his breath grazes my shoulder.