Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
He laughs, a real laugh, rich and warm. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
We pull up outside the McCarthy house, and he parks, but doesn’t immediately get out. Instead, he turns to face me fully, his arm draped over the steering wheel.
“Tell me something,” he says.
“What?”
“When I said I’d be taking off your bra soon enough—” His eyes are locked on mine, intense. “Did that scare you?”
My mouth goes dry. “No.”
“No?” He leans slightly closer. “Then what did it do?”
I should look away… should deflect. Should do literally anything except tell him the truth. I start mentally counting in my head, but pull myself back to the present. I want to answer him.
“It made me wonder when,” I whisper.
The air between us goes electric.
His eyes darken, his jaw tightens. I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard.
“Erin,” he says, and my name sounds like a warning.
“Yes?”
“We’re sitting in a car outside my family’s house, and if you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to—” He cuts himself off and closes his eyes. “Christ.”
“You asked! And you’re going to… what?” My heart’s pounding so hard I can hear it.
When he opens his eyes again, the look in them makes my stomach flip.
“I’m going to forget that you deserve to be courted properly. That this is your first date. That I promised myself I’d take things slow with you.” His voice is rough, strained. “That I’ve been raised to be a gentleman. I’m going to reach over there and—”
“And what?”
He makes a sound low in his throat. “You’re killing me, lass.”
“I’m just asking questions.”
“You’re playing with fire.” He shifts in his seat, and I notice his knuckles are white where he’s gripping the steering wheel again. “And you don’t even know it.”
“Maybe I do know it.”
His head snaps toward me. “What?”
I’m not sure where this bravery is coming from. Maybe it’s the way he apologized. Maybe it’s seeing him be gentle and fierce all at once. Maybe it’s just that I’m tired of being afraid.
“Maybe I know exactly what I’m doing,” I say, and I’m shocked by how steady my voice sounds.
For a long moment, he just stares at me. Then he reaches over, so slowly I could stop him if I wanted, and cups my jaw with one hand.
And the buzzing in my head comes to a full, delicious stop. My eyelids flutter closed as he whispers, “You have no idea what you’re asking for,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing my lower lip.
I look up at him and swallow hard. “Then tell me.”
His eyes drop to my mouth. “I want to kiss you properly. Not because you’re upset or because I’m apologizing. I want to kiss you because I can’t stop thinking about it. About you.”
My breath hitches. “So do it.”
“If I start—” His thumb stills. “If I start, I won’t want to stop at just kissing.”
“Good.”
“Erin.”
“I’m not a child, Cavin. I know what I want. And we’re going to be married.”
His hand slides around to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling gently in my hair. “You seemed scared back at St. Albert’s. Now you’re looking at me like you want me to ruin you.”
The words should shock me, should make me pull back. Instead, they send heat pooling low in my belly.
“Maybe I do,” I whisper.
He makes that sound again—half groan, half growl. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Is that a yes or a no?”
Instead of answering, he pulls me toward him. The center console is between us, awkward and in the way, but I don’t care because his mouth is on mine.
This kiss is nothing like the one at the school.
That one was apology, desperation, promise.
This one is hunger. This one is heat.
His lips are firm, demanding, and when I gasp against his mouth, he takes advantage, deepening the kiss. His hand tightens in my hair.
My hands find his shirt, fisting in the fabric, pulling him closer, even though we can’t get much closer with the stupid console between us.
He pulls back just enough to mutter, “Fuck this,” before opening his door.
Before I can process what’s happening, he’s around to my side, pulling open my door and reaching for me.
“Come here,” he says, and it’s not a request.
I let him pull me out of the car, and then my back is against the side of it, and he’s crowding into my space, one hand on the car beside my head, the other still tangled in my hair.
“This,” he says roughly, his forehead against mine, “is what happens when you look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you trust me. Like you want me. Like you’re not afraid of what I am, and marrying me isn’t the worst.”
“I’m not afraid, and that’s still to be determined.”
He chuckles, but his mouth is on mine again, and any response I might have had dissolves.