Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
I blink. I wasn’t expecting that. “You did?”
He nods, rough and jagged. “Last week. After the game.”
This confession makes my stomach swoop. “Why?”
He breathes out hard, then drops his face to the side of my neck, dusting open-mouthed caresses there—the slow, lingering kind he left all over me in the trailer. They make me dizzy once again. I feel like I’m swimming in desire. I’m hot and achy, and it’s all too much.
“Because I can’t stop thinking about the way you taste. I can’t stop wanting you, and it’s messing with my head. With my focus. With everything,” he says, pulling back, looking at me with confessions written in his eyes.
No one has ever talked to me like this.
No one has ever said anything that’s made me feel like I’m something forbidden. Something dangerous.
Something irresistible.
It’s heady.
I slide a hand up his body, traveling across his firm abs and strong pecs so I can grip the neck of his shirt. “What else?”
His eyes are hazy. It takes him a beat. “What do you mean?”
“What else do you tell yourself?”
He breathes out hard and rough. “Mabel,” he warns. But he started this conversation, and I want to finish it. I inch closer, so I’m rubbing myself against his firm, muscular thigh.
The moment it hits him is delicious. The realization of what I’m doing flashes in his eyes as I press myself to him.
“I tell myself to resist you,” he admits.
“I should resist you too,” I say.
Corbin’s my business partner, and I made a promise to myself to keep my focus on our business. No romance till I get my act together. But still, I ache for him.
The ache is winning.
Maybe for both of us, since he pushes me back against the wall and slides his thigh between mine, spreading them apart. He stares down at me, shaking his head. “You’re trouble,” he says as he cups my cheeks, holding my face hard.
“How much trouble?” I ask, grinding down on his thigh.
His jaw tightens. He blows out a breath, then adjusts his stance so he’s rubbing his thigh against my hot, wet center, riling me up. “So much that I think about the trailer,” he bites out. “I think about the things I want to do to you. I think about you all the time. The way you smell and taste and look…and fuck.”
He sounds angry with himself.
“There’s too much at stake,” he adds, but he’s kissing my cheek, offering me his thigh, letting me use him.
And I’m using the fuck out of him. I’m grinding and rubbing, and I’m fucking his leg in our unfinished bakery.
“I thought about you when I was gone too,” he mutters.
“On your road trip?”
“Yes. Tried not to. Fucking thought about you anyway.”
His confessions kick me to another level. Pleasure pools low in my belly, tight and sharp. My body is a coil. “I’m close,” I whisper.
His eyes squeeze shut for a second. For a fight. For the last ounce of resistance he’s letting slip away. He opens them. “Do it. Want to watch you come undone.”
My lips part as I fuck his thigh until I’m gasping, then crying out, an orgasm seizing me, bright and sharp.
And over far too soon.
But he never takes his eyes off me. Not till I relax against the wall while the pleasure floats away.
Then he looks down. “Oh fuck.”
I follow his gaze to the trail of candy apple red footprints all across the drop cloth and the concrete floor. I guess I stepped in paint.
What a mess I’ve made. I tense, flashing back to the bakery crawl with his daughter, when she teased him about how much he hates messes. Will this piss him off?
No, that’s the wrong word. Corbin doesn’t get mad. He’s not an angry man. But he’s an observant one, an organized one, a man who likes things the way he likes things. And I thrive in chaos. “I’d better go find a rag to clean that up,” I say, mobilizing quickly for his sake.
He shoves a hand through his hair, holding the other up as a stop sign. “I will. You’ll leave more footprints.”
“Right, of course,” I say, feeling a little foolish for not realizing that.
He walks off in a cloud of determination, his footsteps echoing till he reaches the kitchen. The sound of running water filters through the space. I picture him washing his hands before he grabs the rags. So very Corbin. He’s neat and orderly. I should be the same.
I force myself to focus on cataloguing the work we need to do to finish the mural, clean up the paint, and put everything away when I register the sound of the cupboards opening, then something scraping against a shelf.
Corbin’s voice comes from the back of the station, loud and clear. “Mabel, did you know there’s a cookie jar in here?”