Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 79831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Shit.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
Mira
Is this a bad idea? Maybe.
Have I had worse ones? Definitely.
Hartley is mostly hidden in the shadows. I can make out the outline of his body, but not much else. Still, I know he’s smiling, and if he could see me, he’d be searching my eyes like he can pluck the right answer from them.
“Fine,” I say, sighing loud enough for him to hear. “I’ll just lie here and make myself come.” I rip the covers off and fall back against the pillows. “It’s not like I don’t—ah!”
My squeals pierce the air as Hartley catches me beneath him.
He braces himself with his hands on either side of my head, holding most of his weight off me, his body hovering inches above mine. He’s close enough that I can feel the heat pouring off him. Close enough that every breath seems shared.
My hands slide to his shoulders, one of my favorite parts of his body. They’re broad and hard beneath my palms, the muscles thick from years of working the ranch. There’s a steadiness in them, a quiet strength that makes me feel small in the sexiest way.
“You know that you’re my weakness,” he says, lowering himself slightly so I can feel how hard he is for me. “Don’t tease me like this.”
I can’t stop my body from arching toward his, drawn to him by a shared history that goes far beyond lust. There are reasons I told him we couldn’t be together like this. I could even remember them if I tried hard enough … but I don’t want to. Because whatever those reasons are, they don’t feel important anymore.
If I truly need to be protected, it won’t be by a list of guidelines that I made mid-panic.
My hands run over his shoulders to the back of his neck.
It’ll be Hartley who does it.
“I’m not teasing you,” I say, feeling the muscles in his back flex under my touch. “I really thought about it and realized that it was a goofy rule. We have had sex. Why stop now? It’s like buying a winery, and then you stop drinking wine.”
He grins, the light from the city carving shadows across his face. “Great analogy.”
“Thank you.”
His gaze drops to my mouth as his body settles more firmly over mine. The motion is careful. Deliberate. It’s as if he’s giving himself one more out. One last chance to stop.
“But what if you love the wine so damn much,” he murmurs, his voice rough enough to send a shiver rippling through me, “that you know if you keep drinking, you’ll be ruined?” He lowers his mouth until his breath is hot across my lips. “That if you keep drinking, you might not be able to walk away?”
“Then I guess you have a decision to make,” I say, roaming my hands over the hard planes of his back and savoring the way they tighten beneath my touch. “You either stop drinking or accept that you’re an oenophile.”
A low laugh rumbles out of him. “Darlin’, I passed oenophile a long time ago.”
Even in the dark, I can sense the intensity in his eyes.
My breath comes faster. Shallower. More frantic. The throb between my legs grows heavier and more demanding.
I brush his hair out of his face and study the angles of his jaw. These are typically the conversations that make me uncomfortable, and I fear that when I don’t have sex hormones filling every nook and cranny of my body, I might regret this. But right now? I want nothing more.
I want him. All of him. At least for tonight.
“Well, how about we give you a little test,” I say, lifting my hips. “Let’s see if you have officially graduated from wine lover to wine expert.”
He grins wickedly. “You know me. I love a challenge.”
“Then game on.”
Hartley rolls away from me, turning on the bedside lamp. I shake my head at his predictability. Secretly, though, I love it.
“Don’t start,” he says, sliding his boxers over his hips and kicking them onto the floor. “You know I’m not going to have you naked and not be able to see you.”
I scoot off the other side just to toy with him. When he looks over his shoulder, I’m standing by the bed with my fingers gripping the hem of my shirt.
He smirks. “Take it off.”
“I’m enjoying the view first.” I make a point of dragging my gaze down the length of his body. It’s unfair how attractive he is and how he just gets better with age. “My husband’s hot.”
His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek, then runs along his lips. “Seen enough?”
“You never let me really look at you. Not like you look at me.”
It’s true. Hartley loves to unwrap me from my clothes like I’m a gift. And if there’s the option to have a light on while we’re together, he chooses it every time. It doesn’t bother me because something about the look he gives me when he’s visually feasting on my body is very good for my ego.