Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
The walk to the bedroom seems extra long and filled with distractions and enough obstacles to have my legs not wanting to work properly. I fully expect him to shove me in the direction of the bed and vanish, but he crouches low, one hand on my calf, the other working the straps on my heels loose.
I curl over him, trying to convince myself that I’m only doing it to maintain my balance, but he smells amazing, and the warmth his body is emitting is too much to resist.
“Lift,” he says with a quick tap to my right foot once he tosses my left heel away.
When he stands again, we’re nearly nose to nose. I read this as interest because the man is much taller than I am and if he were standing to his full height, I’d be pressing my face against his chest.
“Looks like you have magical fingers.” In my head the words come out buttery soft and filled with enough innuendo a guy even ten years younger than him could hear the suggestion in it.
He must not be very quick on the uptake because he backs away and frowns at me.
Ignoring yet another rejection, I lean in closer with my fingers tangled in his shirt.
“I’ve been wondering all night what your mouth tastes like,” I whisper, lifting my chin and letting my eyes flutter closed.
His hand caresses the side of my face, but he never closes the distance. When I look up at him, he’s looking away, his strong jaw clenched tight.
“Get some sleep, Anna.”
And then he’s gone, the bedroom door snapping closed behind him. I flop down in the bed, certain I’m going to have a mile-long list of regrets when I wake up in the morning.
Chapter 13
Deacon
I’m not used to waking up and feeling less than my best. I normally eat clean and take care of myself. It’s a requirement for the work I do. I have to be on my game all the time, ready to take on the world at the drop of a hat, but I blame both the whiskey and Anna for opening my eyes to the sun blazing into the suite and wanting to do nothing more than roll over and go back to sleep.
I don’t, simply because I can’t. There’s a laundry list of things that need to be done, and the first is getting out of this fucking suite before the temptation sleeping in the other room wakes up.
I’ve been wondering all night what your mouth tastes like.
Fuck my life.
How I managed to back away without giving in or agreeing that I’d been suffering with the same question for much longer than we’d been drinking last night is beyond me.
I’m going insane. That has to be the reason. There’s no other explanation for the way my body reacts around her. I must be in desperate need of a long vacation, a way to recharge and regain control of my damn life.
I groan, my head reminding me of how big of an idiot I was last night. Drinking so much whiskey, the constant lift of my glass to my lips was the only thing keeping me from saying something that would later lead to regrets, or worse yet, using my mouth for other things. The end result? I was hammered when I fell asleep. Too drunk to pop some painkillers or drink a couple bottles of water to stave off the hangover, my head is now pounding like a snare drum.
Climbing off the sofa that’s too swanky and small to fit my frame, I hit the bathroom first, then grab a couple bottles of water out of the fridge. I should be running out of here like my ass is on fire, but instead of turning right, out of the kitchen, I make a left and slowly open the door to the bedroom.
As I look into the dim room, I tell myself that I’m doing the courteous thing by making sure she didn’t choke on her own vomit last night, but when I hear her soft snores before my eyes adjust to the lack of light, I don’t turn away.
I become that creep again. The one standing too far into the room to be gentlemanly, looking down at her sleeping. In my experience, most women curl up under the covers and bury their faces, making sure no draft in the room can touch an inch of exposed skin.
Anna doesn’t sleep like that. Anna, apparently, also doesn’t sleep in many clothes either, but I don’t slither out when I see her dress from last night tangled on the floor alongside her bra. God, did she really have the red lace on under that blue dress. Who knew she was so patriotic? I smile when a flash of fantasy invades my head of her smiling over her shoulder only wrapped in an American flag.