Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
I shake my head. “Actually, I shouldn’t. Getting into Quantico’s competitive. A junior investigator who does a thorough job with an informal investigation on someone who was innocent isn’t going to stand out. An investigator who just won a big formal investigation on someone who’s guilty . . . that’s got the wow factor.”
I expect him to argue, but he nods, which I appreciate. He trusts me to know more about my job than he does, which is a refreshing break from other guys I’ve dated who liked to mansplain everything.
“I’m sorry,” he says, still not releasing my hands.
I shrug. “Me too. But it’s just a timing thing. The FBI’s not now, but it’s not never.”
“Have you told your parents?”
“Not yet.” I fiddle with my napkin. “I’m too afraid they’ll be relieved.” I look up. “Did you tell your foster father that we closed the case?”
His smile is faint. “Not yet.”
“How close are you guys?” I ask softly.
He shrugs as though it doesn’t matter, but his shuttered expression tells me it does. “Close enough to stay in touch. Not close enough for me to call him Dad.”
“Do you want to?” I ask.
He looks up. “I did once, a long time ago. Hoped for the whole adoption fairy tale. It didn’t work out, but I get it. Who the hell’d want to take on the hassle of a teen kid with a chip on his shoulder?”
He smiles, but it’s strained, and my heart aches both for the kid who wanted so badly to be wanted enough to be adopted and for the man who still doesn’t think he was worth the effort.
“How do you feel about dessert?” he asks abruptly, standing and picking up the plates.
I grab the wineglasses and follow him from the dining area to his kitchen. “I feel like I love the idea in theory, but I can’t fathom eating another bite of anything.”
“Good,” Ian murmurs, pulling me close as soon as I set the glasses on the counter by the plates.
A little part of me thinks I should protest. That it’s too soon, that I’m not ready . . .
They’re lies. It feels like I’ve waited forever for someone to want me the way he does. And I’ve definitely waited forever for someone to make me feel the way he does.
I don’t feel like playing shy. I don’t want to be coy.
I want him.
The kiss starts slow and a little sweet. The kind of soft teasing of lips that’s a deliberate, delicious buildup promising more to come.
It escalates in little, sexy ways. His fingers digging into my hips, a little desperate. My nails scraping at his shoulders through the shirt, a little greedy.
His tongue coaxes my lips apart, and the moment it brushes mine, the kiss turns from sweet to scorching.
I don’t know if he moves first or if I do, but a second later I’m pinned against the counter, his palm cupping the back of my head, his mouth slanted over mine as we devour each other.
Without breaking contact with my mouth, Ian lifts me up on the counter, and my legs wind around his waist, pulling him close—needing him.
All of him.
I’ve never felt this way, never felt like all that really matters is within arm’s reach, if only I’d be brave enough to take it.
I want to be brave.
My fingers slide under his shirt.
Ian goes still, pulling back just enough that I can still feel his warm breath on my mouth. “Lara.”
My hands glide farther up his back. “Ian.”
He presses his hand over mine. “I don’t have a lot of control right now. If you touch me, really touch me, I’m going to have to touch you, and then—”
“So touch me.”
He pulls back farther and pins me with that ridiculously attractive blue gaze. “You’re sure?”
I take a deep breath, and before I can chicken out, I pull my shirt over my head. “I’m sure.”
Ian makes a sound that’s half prayer, half strangulation as he looks down at my black lace bra.
Hey, I’m not going to say I planned for this, but I prepared. Just in case.
He trails his fingers lightly across my chest as his eyes greedily take me in, as I shove the shirt farther up his abs. “Off.”
He reaches down, pulls it over his head. He’s not wearing an undershirt. It’s just him, and holy hell, can you say perfection?
He’s tan and toned, and everywhere I look, he just gets better and better.
I touch my hand to his stomach. “Abs. I’ve never been with someone with actual abs.”
“Abs are boring,” he says, reaching around to unclasp my bra. “These, though,” he says reverently as my breasts fall free of the lace. “These are spectacular.”
My boobs are average. I know this. But the way Ian worships them, first with his hands, then his mouth, makes me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world.