Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
I pull back, staring down at her flushed face, wanting to say the words aloud so badly, it hurts.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, brushing my hair from my sweat damp forehead.
“Just thinking I probably need another shower before bed,” I lie.
Her forehead twitches toward a frown. “Are you sure? If you want to talk, we can. I don’t want you to think I’m not up for talking.” Her lips curve into a crooked smile. “I just needed to fuck you first.”
“I love that about you,” I say, my tongue cramping at the back of my throat as it tries to hold back the next part.
The tongue errs on the side of caution, but the heart…
The heart demands I add in a whisper, “I love everything about you.”
Charlotte’s eyes widen. “You do?” she whispers back.
“I do,” I confirm. “I love your mind and your gorgeous body, but mostly I love the way I feel when I’m with you. I love how life makes sense in a way it never did before. How hard things feel easier, and good things are so much better. How growing into the man I’ve always wanted to be suddenly seems inevitable not…impossible.”
Her breath hitches. Her pupils dilate, swallowing the green as her eyes begin to shine. “It was never impossible. You are a good man, maybe the best one I’ve ever met.” Her lips twitch again. “Certainly, the best one I’ve ever fucked.”
“What if I want to be the last one you ever fuck?” I ask, my throat tight again. “I’m willing to do the work, Strawberry. To be the kind of man who’s worthy of a class act like you.”
She cups my face in her hands, her palms cool against my heated skin. “Are you crazy?” She searches my gaze, fierce and tender all at once. “You’re already worthy. God knows I’m not perfect. I screw up and fall short and get sucked into petty bullshit all the time.” She rolls her eyes. “Like fake dating you to make my ex jealous. I mean, how did that ever seem like a good idea?”
I shrug, lips curving as I say, “I don’t know. I’m kind of a fan of a little petty now and then. I wouldn’t be buried inside you right now without it.”
“Valid.” She bites her lip, vulnerability flashing in her eyes as she adds, “But I don’t care about any of that anymore, Baylor. I just want you. And I want you to want me, even when I’m not a class act. Even when I screw up or fall down.”
I lean in, kissing her softly, reverently, pouring every ounce of my devotion into the brush of my lips against hers. When I pull back, I murmur, “It’s a deal.”
“Promise?” she asks.
“I promise,” I vow. “If you fall down, I’ll scoop you up, carry you inside, and check you for ticks.”
She huffs. “Ticks?”
“In my fantasy, you fell in the grass,” I say, kissing her cheek, then her jaw. “In the summertime, right when the grass is long and the ticks are at their fucking worst.”
“Oh no,” she murmurs, looping her arms loosely around my neck. “That sounds perilous.”
“So perilous,” I agree, continuing to trail kisses down her throat to the top of her chest. “But don’t worry. I rush you inside, gently strip off all your clothes, and check every inch of this gorgeous skin for ticks. It isn’t easy with all these adorable freckles,” I add, skimming a finger across the freckles above her breasts, where her peach nipples are already pulling tight for me. “But I keep at it, doing a very thorough job, making sure you’re safe.”
“Then, you fuck me hard?” she asks, breath stuttering out as I close my lips around her nipple, sucking gently.
“The very hardest,” I whisper against her skin. “I promise.”
And then I flip her onto her belly and prove it, fucking her from behind with all the feral love in my heart.
Tuesday morning passes in a friend bubble, Makena and Elly lingering until well after noon to make the most of their day of “playing hooky” from real life. We take advantage of the chaos as Mack pulls her truck out of the front yard to sneak out the back gate, down to where Charlotte moved her SUV late last night.
On Thursday, I drive the girls to their recording session and hang out in the waiting room, drinking coffee and reading a book, deliberately keeping my cell on silent. Three hours later, they’ve locked down not only the tracks and instrumentals, but worked up a rough mix, as well.
Bea invites me into the booth to hear it, and I cry a little. But it’s a happy cry. A proud of the amazing, talented, artistic, strong-ass women in my life cry.
The rough mix is fire. By the time the final song is ready later that night, there’s no doubt in any of our minds that it’s something special, and the producer, studio owner, and Bea’s publicist seem to agree. They insist this song is the perfect way to launch her as a solo artist, while showing the world that Beatrice is her own woman and her story belongs to her.