Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 170885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Bran’s white T-shirt has turned transparent, sticking to his muscles and flashing his nipples in a striptease show. My dick twitches and I have to look up so I don’t get an unwanted and entirely embarrassing erection.
I’m trying to prove a point, damn it.
Be cold.
Stay cool.
Don’t fucking give in.
“This is a bit inconvenient,” Bran mutters as he tries to unhook the strap at his chin.
I push his hand away and do it for him, then remove the helmet.
“I could’ve done it myself,” he grumbles
“Or you could say thank you.”
“Thanks.”
Fuck me.
I’m not used to this docile part of him. Yes, he’s polite and shit, but he’s being extra careful today.
Almost as if he’s walking on eggshells.
He glances at me and his eyes widen as they focus on my neck, probably on the Band-Aid there.
My gaze follows his hand as he reaches toward it, but then he fists it and jams it in his pocket. “Is that really okay?”
“Don’t pretend that you care.”
A frown appears between his brows. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Why would you?”
“Think what you will of me, but I don’t like seeing you hurt.”
“If that were true, you would’ve visited me at the hospital.”
“I did—” He cuts himself off and looks away. “Doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. Look at me.”
He slowly does, and an uncharacteristic sheen of pain covers his face.
“You visited? How come I never saw you?”
“You were sleeping.” He rubs the back of his head. “I managed to sneak past Jeremy and Gareth when they were speaking to the doctor. But I had to leave soon after since Lan came looking for me and was about to start more drama.”
So he was there.
I wasn’t imagining him sitting beside me and stroking my hair.
Is that tidbit supposed to make me feel this fucking giddy?
Cold. You have to be cold or this won’t work.
I head to the elevator, not waiting to see if he follows. He does, trudging behind me. The trip is spent in suffocating silence aside from the sound of water dripping from our clothes onto the floor.
Or my struggle to stop myself from ogling his transparent shirt.
A part of me wants to corner him and feast on his lips, take my fill for the weeks he’s been out of my life.
That’s a lie.
Since I first saw him, he’s never been out of my life. Not really.
I have to hold myself back and not touch him, not fall first this time, because if I do, I’ll just slip back into the pattern I ended things for.
This time, it’ll be different.
The elevator dings and I stroll inside the penthouse. Behind me, I can sense Bran watching the space as if relearning it or searching for something he left.
I go into the bedroom and come back with towels and a change of clothes.
He nods and clears his throat as if chasing away something stuck there. “Thanks.”
I say nothing as I walk back into the bedroom, strip down, dry myself, and then put on shorts.
Forget about the shirt. I don’t like them and I won’t pretend to now.
When I return to the living room, I find Bran has also changed into the gray shorts and white T-shirt I gave him. They’re loose and unflattering, but he’d look annoyingly hot in a potato sack.
Also, I really, really love seeing him in my clothes. I have to look away because I’m starting to get hard at the view.
He’s putting his things in the washing machine and calls out, “Nikolai, bring your wet clothes when you’re finished.”
Even though I’m already here, I go back and get everything I left on the bathroom floor.
There’s no other way to describe the look he gives me other than snobbish disregard.
“You couldn’t put them in something? They’re dripping all over the place.”
“Okay, Mom,” I mock.
He yanks the clothes from my hands with an exasperated sigh and puts them in with his—except the white shirt that he has on the rack near the balcony door. No whites with colors is apparently a rule when doing laundry.
He reaches into the cabinet above him and brings out the detergent, softener, and some other thing that’s apparently good for the skin. Once he’s done with that useless routine, he sets the washing machine program.
Then he walks to the kitchen, puts the kettle on—that he bought, because I couldn’t care less for tea—and retrieves some herbal tea infusions that have remained untouched since he stopped coming here.
I can’t help standing there and watching him move around the area as if he never left. His movements are easier now, and he no longer looks like he’s walking on thin ice around me.
“You don’t have milk?” he asks, head shoved in the fridge.
“No, Grandma,” I mock again.
He glares at me. “Why are you like this?”
“Like what?”
“Completely unorganized. You’re no different than a savage.”
I throw my weight on the sofa and splay my arm on the back. “More like you’re neurotically organized.”