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)
I need boundaries.
And therapy.
Or chickens to hide the bodies.
“You’re sure?” He narrows his eyes, pressing a palm to the countertop. Leaning onto it makes the muscle sinew in his bicep strain and the veins in his forearm pop. Not that I’m noticing or anything as I snatch the pen from my ponytail, then wonder what I’m going to do with it. Bite the end. I was going to bite the end. Urgh! Now who’s being suggestive?
“Yes, I’m sure.” I glance over my shoulder and lower my voice. “You can’t do this, Roman. We agreed. What happened on Saturday can’t happen again, because this is bigger than you and me. It’s about our son, and we owe it to him not to make things messy.” I rush on, my mind filling my head with unhelpful images again. “To do right by him.”
His dark hair falls forward as he drops his head. “Yeah, okay.” He signs deeply. “Walking in here, it was like seeing you for the first time all over again. It’s just so hard.” His head comes up slow, and the way he looks at me through that mess of dark hair makes me feel all shivery. Oh, God, I want to see him hard. Run my fingers over the part of him that’s pure satin over steel. Watch his eyes go hooded, and his breath fall short. Feel the power—quite literally—between my two hands.
“We need to be better than this,” I whisper.
He steps back from the counter and pivots in the other direction with a strangled sound. I know it’s all kinds of wrong, but I’m disappointed I wasn’t fast enough to see if he was being truthful. About being hard.
“Fuck,” he growls, raking both hands through his hair. “I’m sorry, I didn’t come in here to start this. I just can’t stop thinking about you.” His words brand my sorry excuse for a heart, twisting it a little. “But you’re right.” His words are firmer as he turns back again, his expression matching. “When do I get to meet him?” I take a deep breath, but before I can speak, his face falls. “You haven’t told him yet, have you?”
“No.” The word leaves my mouth in a gust of breath, my shoulders sagging along with the admission. “I’m sorry. I’ve tried—tried to a dozen times. I just can’t seem to get the words out.”
“I get it.” His mouth gives a sad little twist. But how can he understand? Me and Wilder, we’re like a team.
“I am going to tell him. I just need a little more time.”
“Right.” He nods heavily, his jaw flexing as he swallows all the things he’s trying not to say. “Is it because of what happened between us Saturday?”
“No, that’s not it. I’m not trying to punish you, if that’s what you mean. But I guess some things have changed.”
“The sex was so good you’ve decided not to divorce me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. It’s just like you said. Sex doesn’t have to mean anything. And Saturday made me realise something.”
“That I have my uses, and for that reason, you’ve decided not to divorce me?”
“It made me realise I’ve been ignoring a vital part of me,” I say, as my mouth runs away from me again.
“And that part would be . . .” I ignore how his voice lowers, and his tone turns velvety. He probably doesn’t even know he’s doing it.
“The part of me that’s not just Wilder’s mom, but a woman. A woman with needs.” I’d thought about this earlier. It’s my just in case plan. Sure, Roman had stayed away, which had given me time to think about Saturday logically. And I did. And that’s why I came up with this just in case Roman couldn’t stick to the plan and thought he might goad me into a repeat.
Because clearly goading is our—my— thing.
No need for seduction where Kennedy is concerned.
“Might I offer you my services as need fulfiller?” His dirty tone is an absolute talent.
“Thank you, but that won’t be required. We’re still getting a divorce.”
“Do you think divorce sex is like hate sex? Because I could go with that. You know, without the actual hate. I like you too much,” he adds as his gaze wanders over me. I drink up every brushing touch. “And you’re so hot when you’re wearing nothing but sports socks.”
“You are a deviant.”
“I wasn’t the one who kept her socks on.”
“I have a date,” I find myself exploding. I’m not sure if I want to laugh or cry. I just know I like this way more than I should. “I am going out on a date with another man.” I didn’t mean this to come out quite so harsh or so adamant, but he really knows how to push my buttons.
“So you said.” He slides his hands into his pockets with a nod. “You also had dinner with him last week. He got fed pasta, but I’m the one who got to eat—”