Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
“Stop it,” I groan, shifting in my seat. “I’m so wet right now that there’s probably a spot on your seat.”
He flips on his turn signal and slows. I look around, but we aren’t anywhere near a residential area. It’s full of storefronts and gas stations. Maybe he’s taking me to a hotel. Or a parking lot.
That’s never comfortable, but God knows that I’ve done worse.
“Good call,” I say, my heart starting to pound. He makes a left into a strip mall. “I need your cock in my mouth right fucking …” I gasp a breath. “You motherfucker.”
Hanging proudly, lit up in blue, are the words Blow Me with a variety of blown glass objects around it.
I shove his shoulder, making him laugh. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” He parks the car and cuts the engine. “This is going to be fun. I think you get to hold a rod, blow into a shaft—should be everything you asked for.”
Sighing, I sink back in my seat and sulk—but just for a moment. Because when I think about it, it is pretty clever, and he executed it perfectly. When’s the last time a man planned something fun like this for me?
Never.
He leans over the console, his eyes sparkling under the streetlamps. “You aren’t really mad, are you?”
“No,” I say, breathily so the heat of my mouth touches his, but our lips don’t quite touch. Then I grin and lean back. “Are we really blowing glass?”
“I thought it would be fun. Have you done it before?”
“No, but I’ve always wanted to give it a try. I mean, what’s not to love about putting glass in fire?”
He cringes. “I didn’t know about your pyromaniac tendencies when I booked this.”
I laugh, brushing a lock of hair off his forehead before I realize what I’m doing. He looks up at me through his thick, ridiculous lashes, and all I want is for him to kiss me. Right now, in this moment with no one around and my anticipation so high that I think I might crack, I want his touch. Just a single brush of his lips against mine. Anything. But the stubborn bastard isn’t going to give in.
I climb out of the car, ignoring his objections and warnings about opening my own door, and meet him at the hood.
He takes my hand, lacing our fingers tightly together, and guides me toward the building. “I open your doors. We can joke around all you want, but I open the doors.”
“Okay.”
I can’t tell if he’s upset with me about it or whether he’s just irritated because he’s on the verge of coming in his pants, too. It is a little satisfying to know that I’m not the only one spiraling.
Chimes ring, announcing our arrival. An old man with a bald spot on the top of his head greets us with a smile. “You must be Drake and Gianna.”
Holy fuck, it’s hot in here. Fans buzz in the periphery, but they do nothing to cool the air. My hair clings to my neck, and I can feel sweat gathering under my boobs.
“That’s us,” Drake says, stroking my hand with his thumb. The smooth, rhythmic motion has a direct line to my nervous system. My shoulders drop, and the buzz from the car settles almost instantly. How wild.
“I’m Paul, and it’s nice to meet you. Have either of you done this before?”
“No. This is our first time,” Drake says.
“It could’ve been,” I mutter.
Drake’s chest shakes as he suppresses a chuckle.
“It’s good to see you both wore the right clothes,” Paul says, motioning for us to follow him deeper into the building. He points at a wall with aprons hanging on colorful pegs. “You’re not required to wear a smock, but we have them over there if you’d like one. Today’s class will be fun and easy. I don’t foresee any accidents happening, but that’s why they’re called accidents, right?”
“Right,” I say, nodding along. I remove my hand from Drake’s and grab an elastic from my pocket. It takes two seconds to get my hair pulled up and on top of my head. “It’s so hot in here. How do you stand this?”
Paul chuckles. “Well, it takes a lot of heat to melt glass, and this is my passion, so I guess that makes it easier. Are you ready to get started?”
Drake moves to stand behind me as we peer over buckets of colored glass bits. As Paul explains that we’ll need to choose the colors we’d like to make our flowers, and fades into a story about the first thing he ever made—a paperweight—Drake slides his hands under the edge of my shirt stealthily. I hiccup a breath, trying to focus on what Paul is saying since he’s clearly talking to me, and not where Drake’s fingertips are biting into the skin of my hips.