Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
The steak is perfect—juicy, medium rare, the reduction rich and velvety on my tongue. I savor it, but more than that, I delight in the sight of her across from me, the way she cuts her meat delicately, her lips closing around her fork.
"How was your day? You don't have to talk about it—I was just wondering because you stayed longer than you planned, didn’t you?" Her voice is small and hesitant.
I'm shocked, pausing with my fork midway to my mouth. Carolyn never asks about work. She always dismisses it as boring and tells everyone she knows that I’m a workaholic. This stirs that wariness in me again. A flicker of suspicion amid the desire.
I explain a little, keeping it light. “The deal I’ve been working on for the last few months hit a snag. Regulatory issues. So, I had to stay back and hammer out some details with the team, but it’s nothing we can't handle."
She nods, her eyes meeting mine with genuine interest, no glaze of boredom. It intrigues me, turns me on even more, if that is even possible. This new layer to her draws me in like she couldn’t comprehend. I'm so fucking intrigued. So fucking turned on. It’s never been like this with anyone. And not like this, even when we first met. My knee presses deliberately against hers now, and I feel her sharp intake of breath.
She feels it too.
When we finish the main, we share a dessert. A simple chocolate mousse. I compliment it and she laughs and confesses that the Chef whipped it up. We eat the creamy and decadent thing quietly. Our utensils clink softly as we take turns, the intimacy building with each bite.
She gets up then and starts stacking the plates with a soft clatter. I help take the dishes to the sink. Our shoulders brush as we move, and the contact is electric. She starts rinsing the plates.
“Leave it,” I say.
But she shakes her head. “Let’s not leave a mess. Vincent will never trust me with his kitchen again.
So we rinse them together, the warm water cascading over our hands, soap bubbles foaming between our fingers. Her laugh is soft when a splash hits her top. Then we load the dishwasher, the machine humming to life with a click.
We turn to face each other at the same time. The kitchen is quiet now, the overhead lights casting a golden glow on her face, highlighting the tendrils framing her cheeks. She starts to say something, her lips parting, a question in her eyes.
But I can't hold back anymore.
The tension that has been simmering all evening boils over, like a rush of heat flooding into my veins as my hand curves around the delicate column of her neck. My fingers weave through the soft, silky hairs at her nape, each strand like velvet under my touch. Her skin is warm, alive, pulsing with the same frantic rhythm as my heartbeat.
I pull her close with a firm, insistent tug that draws a soft gasp from her lips. Our bodies collide gently, her curves press invitingly against me in a way that sends sparks racing down my spine.
I kiss her then, deep and claiming, my mouth slanting over hers with a hunger that's been building for hours. Her lips part willingly. She is soft and yielding, tastes of the rich, bittersweet chocolate and the intoxicating essence that is uniquely her.
My tongue delves in, exploring the wet heat of her mouth, swirling against hers in a slow, sensual dance that draws out every flavor, every sensation. The velvet slide, the subtle hitch in her breath, the way she melts into me with a tiny whimper that vibrates straight to my core. Time stretches, the world narrows to the pounding in my chest, the electric tingle where our lips meet, the faint scent of her perfume rising like a haze around us.
We part slowly, reluctantly, my lips lingering for one last brush against hers.
"Thanks for dinner," I say, but my voice is rough and gravelly, scraped raw by the intensity of my emotion.
Her eyes flutter open, dazed and dark with desire, and I watch, mesmerized, as her knees buckle slightly, her body swaying like a reed in the wind, threatening to collapse right there in my arms.
Her breath comes in ragged bursts, chest heaving, each inhale a shaky rasp that fills the quiet room, her cheeks flushed a deep pink that spreads down her neck. Fire roars in my blood, a wildfire that cannot be extinguished, but I steady her with a gentle hand on her arm, my palm firm against the smooth warmth of her skin. I feel the tremor running through her.
What is this thing between us?
The thought flashes like a warning, but it's drowned out by the raw desire thrumming in my veins. I have no regrets, not a single one. All that remains is the addictive pull of wanting more, of savoring every pulse of her against me, every heated glance that promises this is just the beginning.