Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
“I don’t want to,” he corrects. “If you’re fine pretending that never happened, I am too.” His gaze drops to my lips like I might need a reminder of what he wants me to forget about.
As if that’s a remote possibility.
Forget that Griffin kissed me? Forget that the hands that cause so much damage to others were gentle on my throat in a way that made the constant noise in my brain disappear for a moment? Forget that he tastes like sinful sex and bad decisions? Forget that my clit is pouting at not receiving the much-needed attention she thought she was going to get?
Unlikely. I’m going to be replaying that kiss over in my mind for masturbatory sessions to come for a very long time. Not that I’m going to tell Griffin that. With that type of ammunition, he’d gloat every time we see each other for the rest of our lives.
“Talking, it is. Your place or mine? Talia’s at work today, so it’d just be the two of us.” I wiggle my brows, teasing him mercilessly, because I know exactly what it sounds like I’m proposing. Not that I am. But also, I’m not not-proposing that either. I mean, either way is fine, just fine by me.
Ah shit. I’m doing it, aren’t I? I’ve turned into one of the puck bunnies, so starved for affection and attention that after a couple of days of kindness and one knock-my-socks-off kiss, I’m forgetting—or willfully choosing to ignore—all the asshole behavior and insults he’s hurled at me over the years.
Slut, party of one? Me, right here, I think, mentally raising my hand.
I don’t feel bad about it, though. There’s no reason to. I’m a woman with needs, ones I’ve been ignoring for too long. And Griffin’s a man, a sexy one who wears cologne that drives me mad, helps when the shit hits the fan, and makes one of his rare smiles feel like the ultimate reward for my weirdness.
“Mine,” he finally says.
Ready to get this show on the road, I instantly jump up and down, clapping my hands in triumph. Unfortunately, he wasn’t prepped for that reaction—which he really should’ve been, and is absolutely in my way—that’s his fault, too, and that’s how I end up clocking him in the chin with the top of my head. Totally his oopsie-doopsie, not mine. At all.
“Motherfucker!” he grunts, reflexively jerking back and pressing his palm to his chin to ease the sharp pain. Eyes squinched shut, he glowers at me through one tiny crack in his lids, but when he sees me rubbing my head, he immediately forgets his own pain and replaces my hand with his, caressing the sore spot. “You okay?”
“Yeah, sorry! I was just excited because I’ve never been to your place. Is it like Bruce Wayne’s lair or an empty, personality-less Airbnb?” Griffin looks pained by my suggestions, and I wince. “It’s a bachelor pad, isn’t it? With a black leather couch you can wipe the jizz off of and a movie-theater-size television?” He flinches when I say the word jizz, which makes me laugh. “I can’t wait to see what Home de la Honey looks like,” I summarize, rubbing my hands together in eager anticipation.
“It’s . . .” He looks confused at the concept of describing his home as if adjectives aren’t specifically designed for just this type of situation. “A place to crash,” he settles on, not giving me a single clue.
“I guess we’ll see, won’t we? Let’s go.” I grab his hand, pulling him back toward the sidewalk, but he wraps his big hand around my wrist and stops me.
At the edge of the alley, I’m struck by déjà vu when he peeks out like he’s looking for something, or someone. It’s what he did after throwing me over his shoulder, and how he looked up and down my street after dropping me off. Like he was worried Dom might see us together.
But Dominic has no reason to be here.
It’s a postgame day. He usually sleeps in late, watches television, and does recovery yoga, though I’m not supposed to tell anyone that. I don’t know why.
Point being, Dom’s nowhere to be found, so why is Griffin acting like he might be?
I wasn’t wrong. Griffin’s condo is plain and simple like I expected, but it’s not devoid of personality if you know where to look. The couch is cognac-colored leather (not black), and the pillows on either end are solid cream, but they have tassels on the corners. There’s a black-and-white-patterned rug beneath the couch and a long, low television stand holding a large flat-screen. There are also a few framed art pieces, which surprises me for some reason until I see something that completely shocks me.
“You have a picture of Mom and Dad!” I exclaim, pointing at the only framed picture on the TV stand. In the image, my parents are smiling at the camera, arms wrapped around each other, and the background tells me the picture was taken at the hockey arena where Dom and Griffin played when they were on their former team.