Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
“Should I take my shoes off?”
“Yes.” He drops down in a crouching position, and his hand comes up and reaches for the back of my calf. What is he doing? He lifts it, placing one boot on his thigh as he starts to undo the lace. I’m too stunned to form words, so I settle by following his lead.
Not once has he looked up my skirt, which in his position, he could easily see from his vantage point I am not wearing any underwear. I want him to look, and I am also really hoping he no longer sees me as the kid he once knew but a woman standing in front of him. When he pulls off the boot, I see a small smile form on his lips, and he lets out a laugh just as he reaches for my other foot.
“What’s funny?” I ask him.
“Your socks have bunnies on them.”
“I like bunnies,” I tell him. “It’s the ears, you know. Cute.”
He pulls the second off and stands, and unfortunately, he doesn’t look up my skirt. I kind of wish he did.
“Cute.” Those are not the words I was hoping for. Cute is not sexy. And cute is not how I want Whiskey picturing me. He turns and walks off into his house, not waiting for me to reply.
“But I thought we came here for a drink,” I tell him.
“I think you have had enough to drink,” he says with authority.
“Is that so? What if I want more?” My hand goes to my hip, and his eyes fall to my hand.
“It’s not going to happen,” he says. “You’re welcome to join me.”
“Join you for what?” I step closer to him, and his eyes track my movements. But when I reach him, he turns to the door behind him and pulls it open.
“In here.”
My heart rate picks up. I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol or excitement. He’s taking me to his bedroom. I mean, that’s what I want, right?
I step in, and rock music fills my ears. He walks straight to a bench and sits down on it, looking over at me. I look around, and a part of me is disappointed. This is not his bedroom. It’s his gym.
“I’m sure your father wouldn’t approve of you being in my house.” My head lolls to the side as one hand falls to my hip.
“Why?” I ask.
He lies back on the bench, and his arms move as he reaches for the work-out bar above his head. I watch him do chest presses and realize the bar has to weigh as much as I do. I wonder if he could lift me like that.
I’d like him to lift me straight onto his face.
Shit.
I’ve really had too much to drink.
“Because good girls like you shouldn’t be around monsters like me.”
“I don’t see a monster.” I walk over to him. My leg brushes his and tingles all the way to my stomach explode at the small contact. I don’t touch him with any other part of me. When I look down at him, I see how much he wants me. He may hide it very well, but I can see it hidden in those eyes.
“This is a dangerous game you are playing.”
As he says the words, I can see the need, or better yet, the want, lingering in his eyes. He sets the bar back in place and sits up, and the action places his eyes level with my chest. Our bodies are so close if he leaned forward his lips would touch my nipples.
And I think I want him to do that.
Yes, I definitely want him to do that.
“Sometimes danger is what we need.” I smirk, leaning down so our faces are close. “Are you single?” I ask him.
“But what about that fiancé of yours? What’s his name?”
“Clinton? Let’s just say I was tired of pretending with him. So, I called it off.”
He smirks and before any other words can leave my mouth, he lifts his hand, reaches into my red hair, and pulls my face to his. I feel his grip tighten on my hair as our lips touch.
Kissing.
It's such a funny thing.
I hardly kissed Clinton, and when I did, I felt like it was kissing a ragdoll. It was boring. No sparks, and I hated it.
But with Whiskey, kissing is otherworldly. It feels like he is trying to take my fucking soul. His lips are soft, but also rough with need at the same time. The hand that has my hair is holding on for dear life. When I reach out for him, I come into contact with his bare skin, and there’s nothing to latch on to. I slide my hands down as I open my mouth, and that’s all the invitation he needs before he slips his tongue in and grips my hair a little harder as I clasp onto his waistband of his pants.