Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 131330 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131330 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
I nod. “I think so.”
“Holy fucking shit. I need shots.”
“Yep.”
Realizing waiting for the bartender to come to us is only going to slow us down, we get up from the booth and make our way over to the bar, more than aware that tonight is about to get a little messy. We get comfortable, and as soon as the bartender comes over to us, Becs takes the lead. “Tequila. And keep it coming.”
God, she’s a woman after my own heart. No wonder I like to keep her around.
Our first round of shots is placed in front of us, and we pounce on them like rabid animals as Becs whines about Austin being out of state to meet with some highly sought-after interior designer. I order another round.
This is going to be a long night.
Over the space of the next few hours, we go from graceful, self-respecting patrons of the bar, to being kicked out for public drunkenness.
There’s no other way to put it. I’m a mess, but Becs on the other hand, she’s about ready to fall off her feet.
We stand in front of the bar, and I help Becs into her Uber, wishing we could go together, but from this particular bar, we live in separate directions, and we’ve learned long ago that it’s just easier to catch separate rides.
Her Uber takes off, and I stand out front for a few minutes, waiting for my ride to show up, and as the cool air whips through the night, it helps sober me up . . . a bit. A few minutes turn into ten when frustration takes over, and I open my app to see what the hell happened to my driver before realizing I never actually booked my ride.
What a fucking idiot.
I laugh to myself as I fall back against the side of the building, using it as a crutch to keep me upright, and while I mentally try to convince myself that texting Izaac about how much of an asshole he is probably isn’t a great idea, I start booking my Uber.
My stupid drunk fingers move across my screen, making an array of typos, and by the time I see my option laid out before me, my face scrunches. I don’t exactly like what I’m seeing. The closest Uber is ten minutes away. I could almost walk home in that time. What’s the point in even waiting? Sure, it’s a bit chilly tonight, but who doesn’t love a good stroll? Besides, after all the Izaac bullshit, I could use the walk to clear my head.
I turn in the direction of home, putting one foot in front of the other, and with nothing but time and silence to keep me company, I can’t help but question every moronic thing I’ve done over the past few weeks. Why did I have to kiss him like that? I mean, it’s not like it was some big show-stopping moment. It was barely a brush of my lips across his, but the way his body went rigid like that . . . that was weird. He almost looked . . . fearful.
But why would he react like that? We’ve already done so much worse, and it’s not as though he wasn’t begging me to change my mind. I thought he wanted the physical connection, just not the emotional one.
I try to think over the times I saw him with other women over the years, filtering through every single one of them until I realize that I never once saw him kissing them. Don’t get me wrong, his lips roamed far and wide over their bodies, but never on their lips. That’s a little weird for a man who has never been afraid of public displays of affection.
Does he have some weird repulsion to kissing? Is that why he didn’t kiss me in my apartment tonight? I could have sworn he looked as though he wanted to, but maybe I was imagining that.
God, I can only imagine what it’d be like to truly be kissed by Izaac Banks. I feel as though he’s the kind to start slow and cautious, but then he’d take control. He’d dominate the kiss until I was trembling.
I wonder if a woman can come from just a kiss.
I need to Google that at some point. Actually, why not now? After all, there’s no time like the present, and it’s not as though I have anything else to do right now.
Holding up my phone, I lean toward the little microphone as the streets become less business-focused and more residential. “Hey, Siri. Can a woman orgasm through kissing?”
Bringing my phone closer to my ear, I press the volume button at the side and listen closely, determined to hear exactly what my favorite little robot mastermind has to say about this. “I don’t have an answer for that.”