Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
“You’re telling me.”
“Not helping.” With a huff, I run a hand over my forehead. “There has to be some way out of this web.”
His amused expression drops. “This is my fault. I’m sorry, Pen.”
“I’m not upset. Just feeling guilty.”
“Leave the guilt to me. I earned it.”
“No, no. We agreed to be partners in this. That means we share any blame.”
“Okay, but as partners who now have lots of sex—”
“Lots?”
“Tons. A phenomenal amount.” He reaches out and draws me against him. “Record worthy.”
A kiss to the crest of my cheek has my eyes fluttering closed. I rest my hand on his firm chest and tilt my head to give him better access. “That much, huh?”
“Yes.” He nibbles on my earlobe. “I’m calling an audible.”
“Football talk. Sexy.”
He hums, warm breath tickling my skin. “Can I interest you in some ball handling?”
“Less sexy.”
“Damn it.”
Undeterred, he kisses the curve of my neck, his big hands roaming over my back, down to cup my bottom. He’s had me three times since coming home. And still, I want him. My body sways against his as heat and need wash along my skin.
He palms my breast, making a pleased sound when he finds me braless. The blunt tip of his thumb worries my nipple. Lust leaves me floating and weak.
“What were we talking about again?” I murmur, nipping at the column of his neck.
“I forgot.” He hauls me up and carries me into the bedroom.
And so it goes. We insulate ourselves in a blissful bubble of sex and happiness. When we’re together, the outside world goes away. It’s not a situation I’m familiar with, and yet it feels exactly as it should.
Only there’s a small voice in the back of my head that likes to remind me that there’s a vast difference between playing house and seeing things through for the long haul.
I tell that voice to shut it.
Twenty-Nine
Pickle: Hey. I’m going to be finishing up pretty late. Sorry about that.
Pen: Not your fault. It’s okay. I’m writing a paper now. Boo. Oh! I painted the den tobacco brown. Here’s a pic.
Pickle: You did awesome. I admit, I thought brown would look off. But this is great. I like the monochromatic darkness.
Pen: your assessment makes me smile.
Pickle: I did major in art history. My sense of color is now highly educated
Pen: Oh, is it? You can give your opinion on the shade of blue I’m going to paint the pantry then
Pickle: Okay. But if this is some girl trap, I’m going on record now that it’s not my fault if you hate it later.
Pen: Shows what you know. If I hate it, I’ll pick the other color
Pickle: If you say so
( . . . )
Pickle: I’ll miss you tonight
Pen: Why? Won’t you see me later?
Pickle: I didn’t want to wake you
Pen: oh. If you don’t want to come over that’s fine
Pickle: PEN. I’m trying to play it cool. If you want to know the truth, I’d rather be with you whatever the time
Pen: Good. Then get your hot ass over here ASAP
Pickle: God, you’re romantic
Pen: I’ve got more where that came from, baby
Pickle: Sweet talker
Pen
I drift up from layers of deep sleep to find his firm body pressed up against my back, his arm around my waist, wide palm gently rubbing my bare belly.
Little shivers of pleasure skip along my skin as he softly kisses my neck, the curve of my shoulder, then back again. I lean further into him, letting my body meld with his. His hand eases upward to cup my breast. He gives it a squeeze. White cotton sheets rustle as I turn in his arms to face him. The low glow from the bedside light I left on for him spills over the bed, warm and butter yellow and make his eyes appear pewter.
“Sweets,” he whispers in greeting.
“Pickle.” I kiss him with sleepy languor, running my fingers through his silky hair, along the strong column of his neck where his pulse beats strong and sure.
When we break apart, he smiles softly. “Best welcome I’ve ever had.”
“There’s more where that came from.”
His chest rumbles with a chuckle. “Does that mean I have permission to sneak into your house at all hours and wake you up in any devious way I see fit?”
“Describe these devious ways. I’m intrigued.”
He laughs again and hauls me up so I’m resting on his long length. He’s so much bigger than me, my toes brush his shins. Gentle fingers thread through my hair, pushing it away from my face.
“My little pervert,” he says fondly. “I love how much you love fucking.”
“Now, who’s the pervert?” I rest my chin on my hands and gaze down at him. He’s utterly beautiful like this, dark hair mussed and his strong body at total ease. “I do, though.”
“Do what?” He’s distracted by touching my cheek, and then the shell of my ear again. The man loves touching me. All the time.