Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
We’ve got it down to a science, behaving as if we’ve been married for a decade. Without any of the perks of marriage of course. Like…sex.
The fantasies had not abated. If anything, they’ve ramped up. I spend most of my nights here at his place under the pretext that it’s easier for our schedules and the commute’s a chore. On the flip side, it’s torture having him across the hall. So close and yet so far. I find myself awake in the middle of the night, tangled in sweaty sheets and restless. I’ve burned through four erotic romance audiobooks this week alone. It’s dire straits and I don’t know what to do about it.
“You don’t think he would…you know…”
“Hurt himself?” Jordan breaks the stalemate, speaking for both of us. He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. He cares too much about Mais.”
“So much he left her with you for three months?”
He tilts his head and examines the vegetables I’m chopping on the cutting board.
“What are you making?”
“Pasta with veggies.”
I’m freezing it in small containers for the week. No more scrambling for last-minute meal ideas. Slowly but surely, I’m developing the planning skills of a five-star general and food is my battlefield.
Do you know what it’s like to feed a two-year-old three times a day plus snacks? Allow me to unveil the mystery––it’s a freaking torturous process. I’d rather pour a foundation for a two-story house on my own. Anyone who tells you stay-at-home mom isn’t a real job should be taken out back and shot.
“Smells good,” he murmurs, his heavy-lidded eyes meeting mine.
He’s got me locked into that green gaze. When what I really want to do is walk up to him, run my hands around his neck, and pull him down for a kiss. This attraction has reached maximum level crazy on my part. Yeah, it’s pretty bad.
Turning off the gas, I push the pot full of blanched vegetables to the back burner to cool off. I need to cool off a little too. “Can you taste that sweet potato mash and tell me if there’s enough nutmeg?”
Thank you YouTube. I point to the pot I have cooling on the kitchen island.
“Nutmeg?” Jordan repeats and makes a face. I’m not sure if it’s a curiously delighted face or a disgusted one though.
“Don’t make that face. Just try it.” I scoop some up in a table spoon and make my way to the other side, the one he’s leaning against.
“No thanks.”
“It’s delicious. Just taste it.” I hold up the spoon much in the same way I do when I feed Maisie, but Jordan grabs my wrist before the spoon can reach his mouth.
Mistake. Big mistake. It launches the contents of said spoon––a big orange glob of sweet potato mash––into the air and onto his cheek, near his eye.
Whoopsie.
We’re both shocked at first. But then…then I can’t stop laughing. Grim is mad. Hooded eyes narrow, and his mouth lifts in a sinister smile.
“That wasn’t me!” I slowly back away from him, laughing. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t do that! You did it to yourself.”
He wipes the orange stuff off his face and smears it on my face. I’m in shock. But then…then I can’t stop laughing. Jordan grins. It’s a wolfish grin and… sexy. So sexy it’s indecent. The man I work for should not be this sexy. His eyes fill with a new, shiny brightness. I wipe the mash off my face and lick my fingers clean. His gaze drifts to my mouth and time…just…stops.
Then it happens. A nuclear reaction on a subatomic level. Two people that have been teased into madness.
One minute we’re staring at each other, and the next he has me pinned against the kitchen counter with the edge of the marble digging into my butt and he’s devouring me, holding my face and kissing me like it’s the last kiss of his more than ordinary life.
My dirty dreams have nothing on the reality of him. He feels good, he smells good, he tastes good. He’s so hard I can feel him press into my stomach. There’s so much good stuff to go around it turns into sensory overload. I don’t know up from down anymore, right from wrong. And the thrill far outweighs the cost. Frankly, I don’t care if this kiss gives me permanent brain damage––and there’s a good chance it may.
Utensils clatter to the floor and the noise doesn’t go unnoticed. Jordan pushes me to the floor where we can’t break anything, where the sound of what is finally about to happen won’t wake the baby. He pushes his pelvis against mine, rubbing himself against me. He’s so hard under his dress pants that I can feel everything through my pajama bottoms. If he keeps it up any longer, I’m going to come and I won’t be quiet about it either.