Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 129432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
“Five weeks.”
Does she think that’s insufficient? That five weeks isn’t long enough to measure the seriousness of a relationship?
I want to point out that we’ve been emotionally wrapped up in each for three months and the actual sex part didn’t happen until three weeks ago, but that’s TMI. Besides, on the way here, Emeric forbade me to act weird about us. No shame. Be yourself. They won’t judge us.
As it turns out, he was right. Laura carries on like the most important thing on her mind is her stories about Emeric’s ornery childhood. Her kindness eventually opens me up enough to share memories of my dad. We steer clear of discussions about Leopold, the conflict of interest too sensitive. But it doesn’t hinder us from settling into a comfortable exchange, as if I’m just a normal girlfriend, getting to know the family.
An hour later, I’m completely enraptured with her. Her disposition is so weightless and refreshing. Her gentle eyes and sincere smile radiates the kind of serenity that only comes from deep-seated happiness.
She’s the embodiment of maternal warmth and affection. Such a devastating contrast to my own mother. She makes me feel accepted and nurtured and…young, but only in the best way.
In the kitchen, Dr. Marceaux stands from the table, squeezes Emeric’s shoulder, and disappears down the hall that leads deeper into the estate.
“If you don’t mind…” Laura rises from the chair. “I’m going to go see where Frank went off to.” As she passes the couch, she reaches down and grips my hand. “It’s so good to finally meet you, Ivory.”
I let the tenderness of her words sink in. “You, too.”
Emeric hasn’t moved from his seat in the kitchen, his forearms folded on the back of the chair.
Standing, I brush down the flirty mid-thigh skirt. I feel pretty, but not flashy, my sleeveless green blouse a fitted button-up over a thin camisole. If I did my own shopping, the outfit is something I would’ve chosen.
I approach his back and zoom in on the peek of skin above his low-hanging jeans. No ass crack. He’s too cool for that. But a shadow teases the valley between his brawny cheeks. It’s too inviting to ignore.
I dip a finger beneath the denim and trace that sexy cleft.
He draws in a long, deep breath, his voice husky. “Ivory.”
Stroking the top of his crack, I put my mouth next to his ear and whisper, “I love your ass.”
His hips rock, and his forehead lowers to his bent arms. “My ass loves you.”
My breath falters. His ass loves me or he loves me? I want him to mean both.
I place my palms over the lean muscles along his spine and caress in slow circles. I still find it startling that I’m able to touch him like this. To just walk up to him when we’re alone and show him affection. How crazy is it that I actually want to put my hands on him?
The last five weeks have drastically changed my perceptions about myself and my ability to do normal things with a man.
Leaning in, I loop my arms around his shoulders and press my upper body against his.
With his head tipped down, he wraps a large hand around both of my wrists, shackling them against his chest. “One of the most erotic things a woman can do is brush her tits against a man’s back, and Ivory, your tits are sinful.”
Jesus, his parents could hear. I try to lift my chest away, but he holds me still with his grip on my arms. My attention flicks toward the empty hallway.
“Even sexier, you’re not even trying to turn me on.” He shifts his head and bites my bicep.
My mouth parts on a soundless gasp, my breath held in anticipation. What am I going to do with this naughty man? If he touches me in a more provocative manner, I won’t care where we are or who’s watching.
He slides his lips up my arm, and I melt against his back.
His free hand drifts behind me, latching onto the bare skin of my thigh beneath the skirt. “Did my mom give you the third degree?”
I kiss his neck, savoring his warm smell. “I’ve become impervious to the methods of Marceaux interrogation.”
“Is that right?”
The tightening pressure of his fingers around my hands kicks up my pulse. His thumb strokes the underside of my wrist, and I know he can feel the thudding palpation of my heartbeat there.
I bury my nose in the soft hair behind his ear, inhaling the scent of wood from his shampoo. “What did you talk about with your dad?”
“You. Us.”
With the manacle of his hand around my wrist, he hauls me to his side. Then he rises from the chair, snags his gray fedora from the table, and sets it on his head with a tilt so subtle it could be accidental.