Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 83171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“You forgot the best part, Skye.”
She lifts her brows.
“The olive oil.” Even I notice the rasp in my voice. Olive oil. Dripping over Skye. Glistening. Our bodies sliding together like—
“I’m watching my fat intake,” she says.
I eye her body. No problem with fat intake. None at all.
“It’s only a bit. Here.” I take the skewer from her and drizzle the light-green liquid onto the food. “Try it.”
She pulls the chunk of cantaloupe off with her teeth.
I inhale sharply.
Fuck, she’s sexy. That mouth. Those lips. That perfect way she parts them.
She pulls the next piece, the prosciutto, off her skewer.
I inhale again. “Your mouth. Watching you eat is better than porn.”
She widens her eyes and meets my gaze.
Her brown eyes are shining.
She’s turning me on…and she knows it.
Which turns me on even more.
My flesh is hot, so hot. Damn. We’re only on antipasti, and I’m ready to fuck her senseless.
She sets the skewer down on a napkin, takes another sip of wine, and winces slightly.
“You don’t like the wine?” I ask.
“No, it’s fine.”
“You made a face.”
She widens her eyes, which have darkened to a milk chocolate. Fuck.
“I did? I didn’t mean to.”
“You winced a little.”
“Did I?”
“Yeah, what were you thinking?”
She hesitates for a few seconds. Then, “Just thinking I’d rather be drinking Wild Turkey.”
I can’t help myself. I laugh. I really, really laugh, and damn, it feels good, and I can’t remember why I was holding back earlier. Wild Turkey? She’s a fan of my favorite bourbon? Perfect. Just perfect.
“Why didn’t you ask for it, then?”
“I don’t know. You offered wine.”
“Ask for what you want here, Skye. Trust me, I plan on asking for what I want and then taking it.”
I pick up her wineglass and leave the kitchen. At my bar, I pour a lowball glass of the distinctive amber liquid and then walk back to Skye.
“I’m a Wild Turkey fan myself,” I say.
“I know. You ordered it last night.”
“But you didn’t. Why?”
“I like a vodka martini with oysters.”
“Good call, but this goes with everything.” I hand her the glass. “I added one ice cube. Hope you like it that way.”
“Yeah, I do. I think watering it down just a touch brings out the flavor.”
“A Wild Turkey connoisseur, huh?”
“I’m from Kansas, so—”
Her admission surprises me more than a little. I’d pegged her for an East Coaster like myself. “You’re not from here?”
She takes a sip of bourbon and smiles. “You didn’t notice my lack of accent?”
“Yeah, but I just figured you were from somewhere else on the East Coast. Not the Midwest.”
“Why?”
I could go into a long tirade about how she screams East Coast to me. How she’s fast-paced and focused, how she’s working toward a career in photography by taking a position where her photos will get noticed, how she dresses in body-hugging yet classy clothes. Of course, I’m generalizing, but most people I know from the Midwest or West Coast move slower. I simply shrug. “You look like a city girl.”
“Kansas has cities.”
“True, but not like the East Coast.”
“Also true,” she says. “I come from a farm, anyway.”
“A farm?” I lift my eyebrows. She astonishes me once more. “A real, honest-to-goodness farm?”
“Uh…yeah. Does that surprise you?”
“A little. Do you milk cows and everything?”
She rolls her eyes. “I didn’t grow up on a dairy farm, Braden. I grew up on a corn farm. You know, knee-high by the Fourth of July?”
“That’s interesting.” Not the corn so much as the fact that Skye Manning is so not a farm girl in my eyes. She’s the antithesis of a farm girl.
“Why did you leave?”
She lets out a short laugh. “Because I’ve taken about all the photos of corn I want to take in my career.”
I resist the urge to join in her laughter. “Right, photography. Makes sense.” I gaze at her, my eyes never leaving hers, as I take the last sip of my wine. “Ready for dinner?”
“Sure, let’s eat.” She takes another small sip of the bourbon, sets the glass down, and licks her lips.
God.
That mouth.
My cock is straining against my pants. I’m done waiting. So done.
I meet her gaze and burn her with my own. Her eyes are wide with an answering need, her lips parted and glistening.
I stalk toward her, my chest already rumbling with a groan.
“Fuck dinner.”
Chapter Eight
I grab her hand and lead her to my bedroom.
I gaze at her for a moment as we stand in front of the closed door. The door to the room where I’ll finally fuck Skye Manning. Maybe get her out of my system.
But I know already it will take way more than one fuck to get this woman out of my system. The thought both frightens and exhilarates me.
Her ponytail has come slightly loose, her cheeks are pink, her nipples hard. A lovely picture, but again, my gaze is drawn to her mouth.