Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 147136 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 736(@200wpm)___ 589(@250wpm)___ 490(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147136 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 736(@200wpm)___ 589(@250wpm)___ 490(@300wpm)
His eyes flickered wider.
Then on a growl he wrapped his one arm around my waist and slid his other hand to the back of my neck, gripped me there, and yanked me down until he could take my mouth in a kiss that tasted like love and felt like madness, that was so hard and violent my lips burned and bruised, but it was good. So good I went harder and took him deeper, holding him so tight my hands shook.
We were a chaos of tongues and teeth and hurried breaths. I matched his fire. I matched his depravity.
He pulled and I pulled. He bit and I bit. He loved and I loved.
I was already spinning a second into it and by the time Brian broke the kiss on a moan that rattled in his chest, I felt mindless and melted into him, sank lower, then dropped my head on his shoulder as his arms coiled around me.
We were silent for minutes but it was strange. I said so much and heard him so loudly, the words that made up his heartbeat and mine, it became my favorite conversation.
My eyes were closed when I felt his lips press to my temple, and a second later, I heard him quietly ask, “You’ll never let me believe it was my fault, will you?”
I breathed deep and shook my head.
“No. And you’ll never let me believe it was mine.”
Brian’s arms held me tighter, and that was all I needed because I knew.
He was going to let me heal him.
* * *
It was Sunday evening and I was excited.
No, scratch that, I was beyond excited. This was excitement on a whole new level because I had accomplished something I had never accomplished before, to be more specific, something I had ruined to the point of no return five days prior.
The homemade potpie with made-from-scratch pie dough.
I wasn’t going to let some recipe with misleading instructions knock me down and keep me from cooking again. No way. I was determined. And I had an entire afternoon to tackle that recipe and get it perfect for Brian.
We spent the morning together since we were both off work today, but Brian said he had something he needed to take care of around one o’clock for his sister, he’d be gone several hours and wouldn’t get home until after five, and even though my throat stung with disappointment because I wasn’t invited to whatever it was he was taking care of, nor was I informed of it, I quickly swallowed that disappointment and focused on the opportunity I was given.
I wanted this to be a surprise, a good one this time, and now I had my chance.
I hit the market on my way home, pulling up the recipe on my phone so I didn’t have to go off memory and risk missing an ingredient, then I studied that recipe for a good hour after I got home before I even got started. I was not missing anything this time.
Thirty minutes of prep and forty-five minutes of bake time later, I had a golden delicious potpie cooling on my stovetop and the biggest grin on my face.
No more burned-up dinners for my boy. He deserved the best.
And now that I was currently carrying that pie plate in my hands and walking up the drive to Brian’s house, that grin I had on earlier didn’t hold a candle to the one I was wearing now.
I couldn’t wait to show him what I’d made. The pretty design on the edge of my piecrust looked awesome.
“Hello?” I called out as I entered the house, knocking once but not waiting for an answer because Brian told me never to wait for an answer, just to walk in as long as his Jeep was there.
“In here,” Brian yelled from the direction of the kitchen.
I shut the door, kicked my sandals off and scooted them up against the wall, then padded down the hallway with a bounce in my step.
A sound came from upstairs. It was light and quick like a snap, but sounded an awful lot like a yelp …or a muffled bark.
“Oh, gross.” I shivered with disgust as I moved around the staircase. “I better not see Jamie walking around here collared on a leash,” I mumbled to myself.
Brian was leaning over the counter when he came into view, staring down at what I knew had to be a crossword book. He flicked a pen between his fingers and tapped it rhythmically against the granite.
Pen not pencil. He was that good at crosswords.
“Hey, Trouble,” I greeted him as I crossed the room, watching his head lift and his eyes smile.
“Hey, Wild.” He dropped the pen in the center of the book, straightened, then noticed the plate in my hands. He cocked a brow. “You did it again, didn’t you?”