Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 163802 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 819(@200wpm)___ 655(@250wpm)___ 546(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163802 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 819(@200wpm)___ 655(@250wpm)___ 546(@300wpm)
“That’s what you get for being a jerk.” I snatched the medicine off the shelf. “Next time, don’t cut off your nose to spite your stomach.”
Micah cocked his head. He was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, and my eyes didn’t know where to look. His long, raven locks swept the top of the warring tigers tattoo that claimed the whole of his hard, bulging pecs. The man was a father and husband in his thirties, and still he looked like just seconds before he was getting up to some illegal shit with his buddies under the bleachers.
“Hmm. I’m not sure that analogy works,” he said. “Cutting off your nose doesn’t affect your stomach in any way. What you should’ve said is—” He cut himself off, laughing heartily at the two birds I flipped in his face.
“Seems that’s a no, then,” he said, chuckling. “You didn’t come here to corner me and seduce me with your new sweet-Sue act.”
“My dude, I’m down here because I vomited all over the carpet,” I grouched out—my body as wrung out and tired as I sounded. “This is all the seduction I’ve got for you.” Just like that, I tugged my camisole down and flashed my itty-bitty left titty for his viewing pleasure. “Oontz, oontz, oontz,” I sounded off—bouncing up and down in place.
Micah choked on his fork. He fell off the island, hacking the fork and a chunk of beef on the floor. Wheezing, he clutched his inky chest—laughing so hard that if he wasn’t already on the floor, he would’ve fallen.
“Hope you got everything you needed from that.” Popping my top back up, I made to leave with my medicine.
A hand on the ankle stopped me.
“What if I didn’t?”
I blinked down at him... and the smirk flashing up at me. “Uhh... what?”
“It’s been a long time, baby. Seven months, two weeks, and five days.” He smiled. “But who’s counting?”
“Who, indeed.”
“You want to work out a truce between us so badly, let’s do it the fun way. I’ll trade you.” A warm, stroking finger glided up my ankle—popping goose bumps on my flesh. “Each orgasm I give you also comes with a day of no fighting, no sniping, and no passive-aggressive digs. I’ll be something I’ve never been before.” He winked. “A good boy.”
My jaw worked for a full minute. “This is a joke, right? You’re joking.”
“Why would I joke about having sex with my hot-ass wife?”
Because not five hours ago you were telling Rhodes and Alex that you would never trust your hot-ass wife!
“Because you just got done hearing me say that I threw up. I even have some on my pants.”
“My plan involves ditching the pants, so this works out just fine for me.”
I gaped at him, then my eyes narrowed. “Hold on, is this a trick? Are you planning to lure me to the east wing where Alex is waiting in the shadows with a pee-filled balloon?”
“A what?” He laughed. “You’re watching too much TV before bed, babe. That’s what’s making you nauseous.”
“I—” My stomach heaved, doubling me over and pitching me sideways against the kitchen counter. I wish it were jumbled comedy reruns haunting my dreams. At least those aren’t real.
“All right.” Hands encircled my back and knees. “Guess I’m initiating this time.”
“Wha— Micah!”
He scooped me up, squishing me against his hard, tattooed chest, and carried me away.
I struggled weakly in his hold. If there was ever a time in my life when I was not in the romantic mood, it’d definitely be when I was covered in my own vomit!
“Micah, please,” I rasped as he carried me up the stairs and down the same hallway where I listened to them count the days until they’d be rid of me. “I don’t think this is a good idea—”
He kicked the door open, carrying me over the threshold.
“I can’t keep up with this hot-and-cold thing you’re doing,” I said. He rested me on a bed I could barely see in the dark. “You might think it’s sexy, but it very much isn’t.”
“Then, I’ll stick with one.” His hands slid out from under me, then he did too—moving away in the dark. “Just hot.”
Before I could reply, the lights flicked on—flooding every corner of the plain guest room.
I say plain guest room because that’s exactly what it was when I was growing up—with nothing to say for itself except for a calming cream-and-blue color palette, four-poster bed, two dressers big and small, and an armchair and end table by the window. I didn’t know how long Micah had been living in this room, but however long that time was, he didn’t spend it redecorating.
The only new addition was the mini-fridge he was currently standing over.
“Even if you don’t take me up on my deal, I’ll take you up on yours.” Micah took a water bottle out of the fridge, and then crossed to the bathroom. His voice floated through the open door. “The truce. A ceasefire. For as long as you’re playing the part of doting, loving wife, I’ll play the role of attentive, loving husband.”