Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
We burn together all night long, only stopping to catch our breath, an entire galaxy of hearts and flesh on fire.
In the wee hours of the morning, I can barely move.
The first time was rougher, but this wore me out so much more when it was so emotional, so sweetly draining.
I’m a limp dishrag draped against him, idly drawing patterns on his chest with my fingertip, making his chest hair swirl.
Until his arm tightens around my waist—he’s holding me, instead of pushing me away, at ease and lazy and so wonderfully relaxed—and his other hand comes up to catch mine, stopping me.
“Don’t make me bite you again,” he rumbles, and I love to hear it. No tension or doubt because yeah, I’m still scared he’ll realize his mistake any moment now and turn on the deep freeze. “Stop that. It tickles.”
“I’m not sorry.” I snicker and curl my fingers in his, nuzzling his shoulder.
“No, you wouldn’t be. Wretch.” August yawns, cracking one eye open, watching me before he kisses the top of my head. “Go to sleep. We still have work. And I know you’ll try to drag me out of bed with the sunrise.”
I giggle because it’s true, almost giddy with happiness.
I’d never expected to find this happy place with August.
A place where he can relax, tease me, accept me.
Where he tells me I drive him crazy and because I do—and where maybe we can have a chance.
Maybe these giddy feelings don’t have to die with the sunrise.
I turn my face into his shoulder to hide my smile. “Fine, fine. Good night, Gruffykins.”
“Good night, brat.”
I snicker, fumbling for the covers and dragging them up.
Now that the sweat is cooling, it’s cold with the doors still open. But after a moment I crack one eye open, peeking at him.
“August?”
“Hm?”
“You’ve still got glitter on your nipple,” I point out.
I shiver with pleasure as he blinks in confusion.
Then his deep, rolling laughter fills the night as he wraps both arms around me and pulls me in for a final good night kiss.
XX
STOLEN THUNDER
(AUGUST)
I’m having a dream.
I’m a fireman, sleeping in my bunk at the station during my shift. An alarm’s blaring, waking me up with a start and calling me to action.
There’s a big fire to be put out, the chief bellowing, and I’m supposed to throw on my gear and slide down the pole to hop on the candy-red truck so we can go tearing out into the street to save people’s lives.
Only, it’s a very strange fire station. Everything around me—from the walls to my bunk to the pole across the room—is drawn in clumsy crayon lines.
I think this might be a drawing from when I was a little boy, when I idolized firefighters.
Still, I need to get up, or the crayon-and-paper truck won’t be able to roll to save the crayon-and-paper town—but I can’t.
There’s a cold, wet nose poking me in the forehead over and over as the station dalmatian nudges me. It’s a weird dalmatian, slender and feminine, with golden spots instead of black, and hazel-colored eyes.
Instead of barking, it grins and pokes me with its paw, teasing, “Gruffykiiiiiiins. Wake up. Your phone won’t stop ringing!”
My . . . phone?
My phone.
That’s not my normal ringtone.
That’s—fuck.
That’s the shrill alarm of Rick’s Black Box emergency phone.
The dream clears in an instant, and I bolt upright in bed.
Then my entire home erupts into chaos.
Even as the blasting ringtone ends and starts again with a new incoming call, Elle yelps as my sudden movement tilts her off balance. All I see is a blur of ivory skin and bright-blonde hair tumbling to the floor, dragging the duvet with her.
I lunge for my phone while another ringtone starts screaming from the fuzzy peach bathrobe on the floor. Meanwhile, my doorbell starts dinging like mad.
Shit, what now?
Is there a missile heading for Seattle, or what?
I’m going to get one of Elle’s whopper migraines at this rate.
Tensing, I snatch my phone and swipe the call. Elle wobbles to her knees and presents a distracting view as she crawls across the floor bare assed to work her phone out of her robe.
“Merrick?” I growl into the phone. “What’s happened?”
“Oh my God,” Elle mumbles from the phone, plunking to sit on top of her bathrobe and staring at her screen. “Jesus, not even TikTok’s safe. Why is everyone calling me a ‘gold digger whore’? I’m . . . using kids to get to you? Who’s Duetting my migraine at the press conference?”
Shit, shit, and also, shit.
I don’t think it’s even eight o’clock in the morning, and everything is on fire.
This is not fine.
As I stagger out of bed and hoist my pajama pants up to head for the bedroom door with a light touch for Elle’s shoulder, Rick babbles in my ear.
“Mr. Marshall?” he says breathlessly. “You need to get down here. Right now.”