Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
“Are you hiding from your sexy socks?” We both know he means hiding from him.
“I’m not hiding.” I don’t have enough brain cells left to arrange it. Naked sofa time is a new one for me. Orgasms by hand are going to seem so very ordinary from here on in. “I think I’m dead,” I muster as he slides my wayward hair from my forehead.
“What a way to go, though, eh?”
“Boastful much?” I mutter, opening one eye to what looks like an expression of slight concern. “What? What is it?”
“I was worried we might wake . . .” He fills in the blanks by nodding his head in the direction of the hallway and stairs. “But not until afterwards.” That look? I guess it’s guilt of the parenting kind. He’d better get used to it, though it doesn’t seem the time to say so.
“It’s fine. The house could blow up around him, and he’d sleep through it. He’s always been a very heavy sleeper. When he’s out, he’s out.” My gaze slides down the length of him, hard and toned and planked over me, and I find myself wondering if he goes commando on the regular.
And it seems my body was only playing dead.
“That’s good to hear.” The smile in his words pulls at my attention. His lips and chin shine wet with my arousal, and the expression he’s wearing has probably been outlawed in several states.
“Do you have condoms?” I slap a hand to my mouth, not sure who gave those words permission to be cut loose.
“You mean you don’t have any?” he asks, peeling away my hand.
“Would you like a trowel to help with your digging?” His chest moves with a deep chuckle. “The only box of anything your arrival in my life prompted me to buy is the box of wine in my fridge.”
“You were expecting me to drive you to drink?”
“It seemed a smart buy in terms of price and accessibility.”
“Instead of driving you to ecstasy.”
I pretend not to hear as he reaches behind him, producing a wallet from his back pocket. But I do appreciate the hell out of his one-armed plank.
“What a good Boy Scout you are.” That sounded nastier than it ought.
“Slut shaming, little love?” His dark eyes stare down at me. “I’m not, by the way. I guess I was just cautiously optimistic.” I open my mouth to make some protest as he adds, “I would walk over hot coals for five minutes with you.”
“No need for self-immolation.” Lowering my gaze to hide what those words do to me, I trail my index finger down his chest until it dips it into the waistband of his jeans.
Taking the hint, he flips the foil square to the cushions. “Wanna move somewhere a little more . . .”
“The couch is fine. I’ve never had sex here before.” The latter comes out in a rush, and I roll my lips inward to prevent myself from admitting I’ve never had sex anywhere in this house ever.
“Nothing like reliving your horny teenage years by making out on the couch.”
I never did that, not here. Not as a teenager living under Nana’s roof. But admitting to that feels like too much information for his ears. I spent my teenage years doing the right thing, the good girl thing, and the years following doing my best to be Wilder’s mother.
But there’s no danger of any of that coming out as Roman quirks a dark brow and asks, “So do you want me to keep my socks on?”
Sex can be funny? Who knew.
Making quick work of the rest of his clothes, he presses one knee to the couch cushion. His cock juts from his body, wet tipped, ruddy, and suddenly, I’m not in the mood for laughing anymore.
His cock. Holy hell, even his cock is its own kind of beautiful.
In a rush of daring, I sit up and push him back against the opposite end of the couch to stare down at him. It doesn’t have to mean anything, except I really, really want him. And he knows it, too. His sister-in-law might own an erotic production company, but I bet she doesn’t know Roman looks like this. Because if she did . . .
Like he’s a show just for me, he takes himself—he takes his cock—into his hand. He slides the other behind his head, his biceps giving a not-so-subtle flex. It’s a total fuck-me pose, and oh, I want to, right before my tongue follows the veins in his forearm standing to attention. I’d lick my way down to his fingers and then—
“Do you wanna pass me the condom?”
“You can just wait.” My response wipes the smile from his face, but it’s not what I say but rather what I do as I press my thumb to his slit. His eyes grow heavy as I bring the salty digit to my lips, and I suck on it. Suck on the salt and musk and him.