Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 91238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“I’ve had you on my mind all day.” His thumb brushes my lip, pulling it from my teeth. “But you want to pick furniture.” It’s more a question than a statement.
“Yes,” I say, very breathless. All these porcelain cats are sucking the oxygen from this room, apparently. “Furniture.”
We linger like that. His hands press onto my hips. I want to get on my toes and kiss him, because I know it’ll feel good.
But I also know I might regret it.
I turn away and hurry through the obstacle course until I reach the door. He stares after me, but without saying anything, he follows.
“Should we decide on a style?” I ask, hands shaking with anticipation of being alone with this man all night and somehow resisting the urge to let him have his way with me. “Chippendale? Colonial Revival?”
“How about whatever you like mixed with a few things that I prefer. That’s the style I’m going for.”
“Perfect. That happens to be my favorite.”
Chapter 22
Allegra
Ilounge back on the Boudoir Couch—which is what I’m calling the bright red Victorian fainting couch wedged into the living room—and take a long drink of coffee, surveying the mess. The furniture’s all still where I left it, but now certain pieces are marked off with red ribbons.
We spent most of the night discussing, arguing, and, okay, I’ll admit it, flirting, about what we’re keeping and what we’re giving away. The ribbons were slowly cut and taped down piece after agonizing piece, until I’m pretty sure we’re left with a more reasonable amount of stuff.
“You look comfortable.” Gian walks into the room and I sit up a little straighter at the sight of him. He’s in only a pair of joggers, tight against his muscular thighs, and no shirt. I chew on my lip, frustrated that this guy never seems to get cold even when we have the air conditioning jacked all the way up. Either that or he likes torturing me with his muscular chest.
“Just enjoying good old Bertie before we move her to a less conspicuous location.”
His eyebrows raise. “Bertie?”
“Short for Boudoir.”
“How do you get Bertie from boudoir? One’s an attractive French word and the other is… Bertie.”
“Bertie likes her name, thanks.” I pat the arm of the couch and stretch my legs. “Would you mind putting a shirt on? You’re scaring the furniture.”
He smirks and picks his way over. “I think it’s more like I’m scaring you.”
“Yep, you got it. I’m terrified of your nipples.”
“I’ve got wonderful nipples. Almost as nice as yours.”
“As if you’d know.”
“I remember your nipples clearly. I don’t think I could ever forget them.”
I groan and shake my head as he sits at the end of Bertie, putting my feet in his lap. I should object, but then he’s rubbing them gently, and I guess I forget to tell him to lay off. “Don’t ever talk about my nipples again, please. I don’t need to be reminded of our past dalliances.”
“Dalliances? Is that what you’re calling it?”
“Yes. Now keep doing that, I like it.”
“It’s cute you refer to our dalliances as past.”
“Uh-uh, no way, don’t start this. You’re rubbing my feet and we’re enjoying our spread of couches. That’s all.”
“That’s all,” he murmurs, staring at me, and I feel my cheeks turn red.
We slept in the same bed last night. It wasn’t so bad—actually kind of nice, honestly—and he kept his hands to himself. Helped that we were both exhausted from fighting over end tables and more than a little drunk.
But getting up this morning was interesting. He was already awake and in the bathroom, and I swear I didn’t mean it, but I rolled onto my side and caught him standing at the mirror completely nude—yes, completely nude, dick out and all—and I might’ve stared for a little while. I mean, the guy’s an asshole, but he’s an absolutely beautiful asshole with a really, really nice cock, and he might’ve caught me staring.
Which was more than a little embarrassing.
He didn’t even bother closing the door. Just laughed and went back to shaving.
The sick bastard.
I might’ve snuck another peek before getting out of there.
And now here we are, the tension so thick I could scoop it with a spoon.
“Well, this has been great, but I should get going.” I try to move but he holds onto my ankles, keeping me in place.
“Where are you running off to?”
“Lunch with Sophia.”
“It’s eight in the morning. I think you have time.”
“Don’t you have work?”
“No. I gave my work to Saul, remember?”
“Oh. Right.” I clear my throat, feeling like an asshole for mentioning it. “How are you, you know, holding up?”
“Wow. Was that your attempt at asking how I’m feeling?”
“No, because I definitely don’t care. I was just being polite, which I thoroughly regret.”
“Right, well, I’m doing fine.”
“Really?” I sip my coffee and put the mug down on one of the nearby coffee tables. I call it Joshua because he reminds me of a guy I briefly worked with. That dude had the personality of a table.