Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 115885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
“Please get better, Mal. Please, please, so I can sing you lullabies you hate and read your songs and give you shit about the napkin and ask you a million questions.”
I don’t know why I’m talking. It’s obvious Mal is not going to answer. Somehow, I manage to doze off in his arms, too tired now to eat the food I left on the counter.
I wake up a couple hours later. The winter blankets the sky, dim and black, but it’s still not nighttime. I glance at Mal’s face. He seems to be sleeping peacefully, and some of the color has returned to his face. One good thing is that he is very, very hot and sweaty against me. He is fighting the fever off, his hair sticking to his forehead and the nape of his neck.
His dick is still wonderfully erect. Okay, time to untangle, call Callum, and tell him I’m coming to England. No way I’m staying here when Ashton is a continent away and Mal is hard and beautiful and available and kept the napkin. Mom might be a handful, but that doesn’t mean she’s not right. Mal is trouble, and I’m not a huge fan of trouble anymore.
I try to withdraw from his body, only to find he’s now the one with his arm clasped over me, and not vice versa. I slide to the edge of the bed, but Mal clasps my arm. I gasp and turn to look at him.
He smirks, his eyes still closed.
Bastard.
“Going somewhere fancy?” he inquires, his voice deep and rich and gravelly.
Pouty, broken-boy charm has always been my kryptonite, and when he is Imperfect Mal, the urge to love him overwhelms me.
Food for thought, though: Kryptonite also has the power to completely destroy Superman.
“Yeah,” I say. “England. To meet my boyfriend’s parents.”
These plans have been brewing in my head for a while, but I’ve yet to do anything about them. Now something tells me it’s time I should. Must, if I want to save my relationship.
His eyes are still closed, his smile widening.
Did he listen to what I just said? Maybe he woke up with brain damage. Poor soul. But I’m sure there are women lining up to take care of his screwed-up self. There are two types of women—the ones who want to save, and the ones who want to be saved. The entire population of the former would take Mal and his goodie bag of issues happily.
“Stop smiling.” I groan.
“Why? Life is beautiful.”
“Is that so?” I quirk an eyebrow. I think—I think—he just rolled his hips against my groin, essentially pushing his dick between my legs, but I can’t tell for sure, because the movement is very gentle. What I am sure of is the fact that I’m drenched to the bone and currently clenching my womb, wishing his throbbing member was in my tunnel. And yes, I just said throbbing member in my head, because admitting the obvious—I am insanely, deliriously in lust with him—is hard to swallow.
There’s heat swirling in my lower belly, and if I don’t escape this bed right now, I will do something I won’t be able to forgive myself for.
His eyes pop open, purple and bright and full of mischief. It’s like he woke up a new, healthy man. The tables have turned again, and now I’m the one at his mercy.
“Are we still doing this I-have-a-boyfriend routine? Because Shiny Boyfriend lost the girl the minute you found the napkin.”
I get out of bed and walk out of his room, flipping him the finger without turning around. Screw him and screw Tolka. Screw his goddamn grandfather (sorry, God) and the unpredictable Ashton Richards and Jeff Ryner himself.
I head to the living room, unzipping my suitcase and rummaging through my stuff for an appropriate flight outfit.
After a moment I see Mal sauntering into the living room, lazy and confident and OH MY GOD, WHY CAN’T YOU BE UGLY?
“You might want to reconsider that.” He picks up his cigarette-holed Joy Division white tee from the floor, but doesn’t put it on.
“Oh, yeah?” I park a fist on my waist. “Why?”
“Because you’re naked, and although I’d personally pay good money to keep you in that state, there are rules to abide by in this wonderful country.”
I look down at my naked body, then up at him, frowning. I pick up the first thing in my vicinity—the triangle sandwich I never ate—and throw it at him. He catches it in one hand, cracks it open, and takes a bite. Dammit.
“You kept the napkin and you didn’t tell me!” I ignore my stomach, which at this stage is glued to my inner organs, screaming for food. Guess that’s what happens when you’re too busy having three internal meltdowns and an anxiety attack due to emotional overflow. You forget to eat.