Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Our gazes connect again.
“What would you rather do?” she asks again, without stuttering.
She sets her wine glass down on the coffee table, the soft clink the only sound in the room. Then she looks back at me expectantly.
Waiting.
I shift closer.
Give her time to pull away—or kick me out.
She doesn’t. Instead, her breath hitches almost excitedly, eyes dropping to my mouth. When she licks her glossy lips, it’s all the permission I need.
I tell myself that she’s not some perfect, untouchable thing.
She’s the kind of woman who invites a stranger she met less than an hour ago up to her apartment. The kind with balls big enough to walk out on men and make rash decisions—it’s a coincidence that she seems sweeter than sugar.
She’s not an angel.
I am no savior.
I am a mess. I’m angry and raw and still bleeding out from Declan, from Bailey, from everything I didn’t say and everything I did. Mourning the loss of whatever mediocre relationship we had. Mourning my friendship.
I shouldn’t be anywhere near someone this soft and good.
We move at the same time, drawn together like magnets, and before I can think better of it, my rough fingers curve around her jaw. Thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.
Exploring.
Warm. So warm.
I trace along her jawline, then down, following instinct more than intent, marveling at how easily she leans into it. Like she trusts me even though she shouldn’t.
My hand trails lower, down the slope of her neck, the pulse there fluttering, and I touch her like she’s fragile.
Breakable.
I inhale; she smells clean and pretty and floral.
My hand trembles as it skims her shoulder then back up again, sweeping gently up the column of her throat. Porcelain.
Pure.
This woman is nothing like Bailey, who spent years standing outside stadium locker rooms and afterparties before landing me—and now Declan Kennedy. A career gold digger if I ever knew one. Lesson learned.
I scowl as their faces cross my mind, the comparison briefly souring the moment…
I cup her face.
She tilts her chin instinctively, eyes searching mine as my forehead dips closer, her palm sliding up the front of my chest. Gently.
Tentatively.
I kiss her.
A brush of lips at first, gently pressing my mouth to hers. Her lips are warm. Pliant. Yielding.
She sighs as if content when I explore, lips kissing the corner of hers, one corner then the other… her bottom lip. It’s full and pouty and puckers when I swipe my mouth over it, trusting that I’m going to find the rhythm.
That’s the fucked-up part. We shouldn’t be doing this because I don’t even know her fucking name.
This girl clearly does not belong with someone like me. Rough. Hard around the edges. Newly jaded. Bitter. Bruised inside and out, my heart a bit broken…
I break the kiss long enough to breathe out a rough laugh, my forehead dropping to hers.
“This is a terrible idea,” I murmur, voice low, wrecked.
Her answer is a dare. “Then stop.”
She doesn’t pull away.
Neither do I.
A flip switches.
I sweep her up without warning, one arm under her thighs, the other firm around her back. She gasps, excited, hands flying to my shoulders, breathless laughter spilling out of her as I turn and carry her down the hall.
“Put me down, I’m too heav—” she starts.
“Shh,” I cut her off, already in motion. Already committed.
I don’t ask where the bedroom is, my body simply knows. Plus, the apartment is small enough to navigate without directions, and I move toward the one hallway.
The bedroom door is exactly where it should be. Her back hits the wall beside it with a soft thud as I set her down but don’t let go. I brace myself in front of her, caging her in, her chest rising and falling fast.
Wanting. Alive.
“This,” I say into her neck, lips brushing against the pulse in her throat. “This is the part where you tell me to fuck off and slow down.”
She swallows.
Lifts her chin.
Doesn’t tell me to fuck off.
Doesn’t tell me to slow down.
I hook my hands under her thighs and lift her higher. She gasps, legs instinctively wrapping around my waist, back pressed harder into the wall, hands clutching my shoulders.
I kiss her again—nothing tentative about it now.
Open-mouthed kisses. Hungry.
Tongue.
Teeth.
I nip at her lower lip, enough to elicit another breathless sound from her throat that goes straight to my spine. Our kisses are wet and sloppy, my hand moving from her ass to the hem of her shirt…
Then higher…
Skim beneath, palm brushing warm skin…
She arches into it, a soft inhale against my mouth that tells me she likes it.
Skin.
Heat.
I groan.
Too much and not enough, all at once.
I carry her into the bedroom, setting her down in the center of the bed then crawl onto the mattress, hands braced on either side of her, chest rising and falling.
Her hair is a mess.
Her lips are parted and swollen from kissing. Her eyes are dark and wild and searching, like she’s trying to figure out what I’m going to do next.