Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 138315 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 692(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138315 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 692(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
“Mornin’, baby,” he murmured there.
I stretched again, more languorously.
He was here.
With me.
He’d slept here.
With me.
“Morning,” I whispered.
His hand hit my hip.
“Wanna go down on you,” he said.
Oh yes.
We hadn’t done that yet.
I twisted my neck and caught his eyes.
So beautiful.
“’Kay,” I agreed.
Those icy-blues shone with humor and something even better before he took my mouth in a slow, Sunday morning kiss.
Then, with that hand at my hip, he pressed me to my back, and he wasn’t kidding.
He wanted to go down on me.
I was sleepily surprised that, without preamble, he slid my panties off, opened me to him, and dipped right in.
I didn’t need any preamble when he got down to business.
Holy heck.
Axl purred when he ate a woman out.
It was sublime.
* * *
Croissants, butter, jam, coffee, me in my nightie, Axl in his sleep pants (these black with a black elastic band), post-orgasm (me, two, Axl, one) and his bed.
I’d never had one, but I recognized it immediately.
My perfect morning.
“What do you wanna do today?” he asked, twisting to put his coffee mug to a nightstand after taking a sip.
Go down on you, fuck, you go down on me again, fuck more, move on to making love and sometime in there eat and snooze before we pass out for the night, I did not say.
“I don’t know, what do you wanna do?” I asked instead.
“Finish breakfast, fuck, nap, fuck, eat lunch, maybe a quick tourney of Pac-Man, fuck again, eat dinner, watch a movie, fuck then sleep,” he said mostly what I thought, with some welcome alterations.
I bit off a hunk of croissant and jam and smiled at him with my mouth closed.
He watched my mouth as he queried, “Is that indication you’re down with my plan?”
I nodded exuberantly while chewing.
He chuckled and grabbed the knife that was in the jam jar. A jar that sat on a dinner plate which was acting as a tray on his bed.
He thus commenced in loading up his croissant.
He liked a lot of jam.
So did I.
Mm.
“You were beautiful last night, baby,” he murmured before he took his own bite.
Yes.
He’d told me that last night.
Not that a repeat sucked.
“Thanks,” I said shyly.
“Particularly liked ‘Do You Wanna Touch Me.’ ”
He would.
“I got that when you touched me there a lot after we got back from Smithie’s,” I joked.
“Punk in pointe shoes,” he muttered, going for some butter to prepare his next bite. “Fuckin’ genius.”
I felt something skate over my skin.
And the sensation was like someone was trailing a soft cashmere blanket over my body.
That said …
I didn’t often pull out the pointe shoes at Smithie’s. If it didn’t work for the routines—which were meant to be provocative, titillating, not a showcase of dancing talent, so they didn’t often work—I didn’t try to fit them in.
But there was something gloriously suggestive in adding the grace of being en pointe with the hard chords and blatant invitation of that song.
I couldn’t run away en pointe.
So if you wanted to touch, all you had to do was reach out, and I couldn’t get away.
You had me.
But genius?
“Thanks,” I repeated, my voice funny.
His gaze came to me.
“What?” he asked.
“What what?” I asked back.
“What’s with the voice?”
It wasn’t like he was deaf, though it was coming clear he wasn’t one to let things slide.
“Just …” I tipped my head to the side, “genius?”
“You think I’m full of shit?” he asked bluntly.
Nope, definitely not one to let things slide.
“No,” I answered. “I think you want me to feel good about myself.”
“And you think I’d do that by feeding you a line?”
I studied him closely.
He didn’t seem mad.
He seemed inquisitive.
“I … don’t know,” I told him honestly.
“Okay …” he began.
He then tossed the last bite of his croissant on the plate and focused on me.
Or focused entirely on me.
“I wouldn’t do that,” he stated.
“All right,” I replied.
“Also,” he went on, “I’m aware I’m not gonna fix all your father broke down in you by blowing sunshine up your ass.”
Oh boy.
“Okay,” I said.
“Which brings us to talking about your dad.”
Ugh.
“Can we just … not?” I requested.
“Why not?”
“Because we’re having a perfect Sunday morning.”
His expression warmed with that.
But sadly, that warmth did not mean I was off the hook.
“Okay, honey, then when? In the mornings, I’m out of the house before you. I come home to have some dinner with you, and there’s not time to do much more. And regardless, it wouldn’t be great to get into the heavy with you right before you have to work.”
This was a valid point.
“You didn’t go to your dad last night,” he noted.
No, I didn’t.
“I texted him at lunch,” I told him. “After the, uh … sitch at the bridal shop, and, well, the state I was in, I thought it was best to concentrate on you.”
He grinned.
It was a nice grin.
It was a hot grin.