Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 175(@200wpm)___ 140(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 175(@200wpm)___ 140(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
My face goes red.
Oh.
Oh.
Understanding crashes through me like cold water, except the opposite of cold, more like fire, more like every nerve ending in my body suddenly waking up and paying attention. A delicious little thrill runs down my spine even as embarrassment floods my cheeks, making me want to cover my face with my hands, except I can’t move because he’s looking at me like that—like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me and is enjoying every second of my mortification.
My husband is counting.
Not days or steps or the ceiling tiles I used to obsess over.
He’s counting the number of times he’s made me come apart in his arms.
“Santino—”
But he’s already reaching for me, his hands spanning my waist with that confidence that still makes me dizzy, lifting me like I weigh nothing, and then I’m on the counter with my legs dangling and my heart hammering against my ribs and my face burning hot enough to brew espresso.
My husband is just so—
The thought cuts off when he kisses me.
His mouth captures mine with the kind of possession that has nothing to do with asking and everything to do with claiming, his hands framing my face, thumbs pressing against my jaw in a way that makes me open for him, makes me surrender before I’ve even thought about fighting. The kiss tastes like morning coffee and something darker, something that makes heat pool low in my belly and my thighs press together instinctively.
I try to protest when he pulls back just enough to breathe against my mouth. “Santino, wait.” The words come out breathless, desperate. “Today might not be a school day, but what if someone wanted to—”
His mouth moves to my throat.
Ooooh no.
Because Santino is kissing parts of my body that he alone has ever seen and touched, his lips trailing down the side of my neck while his hands—oh dear—his hands are reaching for the hem of my dress, fingers skimming up my thighs in a way that makes me forget how words work.
I try to think. Try to remember why this is a bad idea. Something about the café. Something about being visible through the windows. Something about—
His thumb brushes against the inside of my thigh, and thinking becomes impossible.
I can no longer form coherent thoughts.
Can no longer do anything but feel—the warmth of his mouth against my pulse point, the strength of his hands spreading my thighs wider, the counter solid beneath me, the morning air cool against my heated skin, and oh, oh, the way he’s touching me now, like he has every right to my body, like I’m his to claim in broad daylight in a café we built together.
And maybe I am.
Maybe I’ve been his since day thirty-six in that corner booth, when I first looked up and saw him and forgot the specials.
“Thirty-six,” he murmurs against my skin, and I feel him smile. “But I think we can do better.”
JOLIE MADE IT TO THE track with three minutes to spare, her heart doing something complicated in her chest that had nothing to do with the brisk walk across the property.
The outdoor course stretched before her like something from a dream—smooth asphalt painted with bright racing lines, curves that looked gentle from a distance but would probably feel terrifying at speed, safety barriers that gleamed in the late morning sun. Other participants were already gathered near the starting point, mostly men in expensive athletic wear, laughing and joking with the easy confidence of people who’d never questioned whether they belonged somewhere.
Her instructor was supposed to meet her here.
But she didn’t see anyone who looked particularly instructor-like.
Just a man standing with his back to her, tall and unnaturally still, studying something on his phone with the kind of focus that made the air around him feel different. Heavier. Like he carried his own gravity.
Something about him felt familiar.
Not familiar like she’d met him before. Familiar like she’d studied him. Like she’d memorized the line of his shoulders and the way he held himself—braced for impact even when standing perfectly still, like someone who’d learned a long time ago that relaxation was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
Jolie’s breath caught.
No.
It couldn’t be—
He must have heard her footsteps, because he turned.
And Jolie’s jaw dropped.
The man standing in front of her was agonizingly beautiful.
Not beautiful in the way movie stars were beautiful, all symmetrical features and professional grooming. Beautiful in the way fallen angels were beautiful—sharp cheekbones that could cut glass, dark hair that looked like he’d been running his hands through it in frustration, eyes the color of winter storms over Paris. A real-life Heathcliff pulled straight from the moors and given breath and bone and devastating, dangerous reality.
Séraphin Fureur.
The book slipped from her hands.
She lunged for it, panic making her clumsy because he was also bending down at the same time, albeit with more grace.