Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 91783 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91783 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Before heading up to our room, I go back out to my truck and grab the rest of my things. Upstairs, I sort out my laundry, stack my suitcases by the bedroom so I can take them to the basement later, and jump into the shower.
A few years ago, we remodeled the bathroom and took over the guest bedroom that was attached to our bedroom. We now have a larger walk-in closet, a bigger soaking tub, a hot sauna, and a fancy, dual shower-head shower. Those things are marketed as “time and water-saving.” I wholly disagree. If my wife is in the shower with me, it’s neither saving time nor water, and we’re really not showering.
I’m in and out in under ten minutes. The long soak can happen later, with candles, and my wife resting her back against my chest.
“Dinner,” Josie calls from downstairs.
We eat at the kitchen table. We talk idly about things going on. Noah and Peyton are planning the triplets’ birthday. It’s hard to believe they’ll be one next month. Peyton wants to do a whole production with three cakes—one for each of them—decorations, bouncy castles, and pony rides.
“Shouldn’t that be like birthday number three, so they remember it?”
“Yes, but they’re not our babies.”
I nod, pour us more wine, and eat the meal my wife has made for me. Mostly, I listen. She runs through the rest. Trudy wants to add a second bread delivery because the deli sold out of turkey clubs before noon three days in a row. Another building, on the side of town that needs a lot of help, is going to come up for auction.
“What are you thinking?”
Josie shrugs. “My first thought is apartments. Something for single parents.”
I lean back in my chair and nod. “Okay. Make an offer.”
She smiles even though she already knew I’d be on board. For three years she was a single mom until the frenemy came along. Sure, she had Katelyn and Mason, but Nick . . . I shudder at the thought.
After dinner, I push my plate back. Josie reaches across the table to stack it on hers, and I catch her wrist.
She looks at me. She knows that look. She’s known it for most of her life.
“What time is Paige due home?”
“Not for another hour or so.”
I pull her toward me by the wrist. She comes around the table, and I push my chair back to make room. I run my hands up the backs of her thighs, slow, and she tips her head back as I pull her to my lap. I press my mouth to her throat, to the soft skin above her collarbone, and taste the salt on her. She makes a sound. Quiet, private, the one she only makes when we’re alone. Her hands grip my shoulders and those delicate fingers of hers push into my knotted muscles.
“Here?” she asks.
“Here.”
I stand and lift her onto the edge of the table. The plates slide. She doesn’t care. I don’t care. Her legs wrap around me, pulling me in, and I feel her heels dig into the back of my thighs. She pulls my shirt over my head. Her hands move across my chest, my ribs, the tattoo of her name. Her fingers trace the letters the way they have since she first saw her name inked on my skin, long before we returned to each other.
I unbutton her blouse one button at a time while she watches me. Her breath changes when I reach the third one. By the last one I’m not thinking about the tour or the empty seats or the word legacy. I’m not thinking about anything except her skin under my hands and the way her hips rock against mine when I press into her.
“I missed you,” she whispers. She says it into my mouth. Her fingers dig into the muscles along my spine. “I missed you so much.”
I don’t answer with words. I answer with my hands and my mouth and every part of me that belongs to her, which is all of it. Every single part.
We knock a wine glass off the table. Neither of us stops.
I pull her jeans down over her hips. She lifts to help, and I drag them the rest of the way off, one leg at a time, my mouth following the inside of her thigh. She gasps, the sound sharp and needy in the quiet of the room. Her hand finds the back of my head, fingers twisting in my hair, guiding me where she wants me. I take my time. I’ve been on a bus, away from her, for too long, and the hunger I feel isn’t just for her body but for the total surrender I know I can evoke from her. I’m not rushing this.
I linger on the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, my tongue tracing slow, wet circles that make her legs tremble. I can feel her muscles twitching, her hips beginning to tilt upward instinctively, searching for the friction she craves. I ignore the urgency in her movements, choosing instead to kiss my way upward with agonizing slowness. I want her desperate. I want her to feel every single second of the anticipation until she’s practically begging.