Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
I was wrapped around this woman’s finger—and I fucking knew it. From the beginning, I told myself this would never be anything more than a hookup, but deep down, I knew I wanted more. I’d wanted more from the moment I saw her. And I knew I would always want more.
But how would I get to keep her?
We lay in bed together, her lithe body wrapped in my strong arms.
It was the first time we were together in bed without fucking. My heart was too damaged by the shitty day, and feeling her in my arms was the best consolation. She fell asleep against my chest, her hair across my stomach. When bumps formed on her arms, I pulled the sheets higher up her body to keep her warm.
I was so relaxed with her, but I still couldn’t fall asleep.
There was too much anger inside me. Sometimes I wanted to punch my father in the face and break his jaw. I was never violent toward people unless they warranted it, and sometimes I wondered if he’d warranted my wrath. A part of me pointlessly hoped there would be a reconciliation someday, but I knew that would never happen.
I didn’t fall asleep until morning when the sky turned from black to a dark blue.
Then my eyes opened almost immediately after I closed them, seeing the bright daylight peek through the closed curtains. I squinted at the light, and then I felt the exhaustion behind my eyes because I’d only slept for a few hours. I tapped the screen of my phone, seeing that it was eleven.
Then I realized what had woken me up.
The aroma of breakfast.
I lay there and listened to the hot pans heat the oil in the kitchen, the sound of her opening and closing cabinets, moving dishes, using the sink. The sound was relaxing, so I just listened to it, knowing my baby was making me breakfast.
The only woman who had ever made me breakfast was my mother.
I eventually got out of bed, took a shower, and then walked into the kitchen in just the sweatpants I was wearing when I came over here. Once I stepped into the kitchen, I could really smell it. It was breakfast crepes, scrambled eggs with gruyère cheese and sautéed mushrooms and zucchini. She also had bacon and croissants. I looked at it all in amazement before I looked at her. “You did all of this?”
She was in her pajamas with a little white apron tied around her front, her beautiful hair in a loose bun. “I don’t have a secret butler hidden in the closet.”
“You’re way hotter than my butler.” I grinned as my arm circled her waist, and I pulled her into me, squeezing her ass as I kissed her, feeling my mouth still stretch in a grin that I couldn’t suppress. “You didn’t have to make me breakfast, baby,” I said when I pulled away.
“We always have breakfast when we do sleepovers.”
“I could have taken you out.”
She squeezed my arm. “I thought you liked my cooking?”
“I do, but—”
“Then shut up and eat it.” She rose on her tiptoes and kissed me before she turned back to the stove.
I grinned as I watched her. “I like it when you tell me to shut up.”
“Good. We’re going to get along just fine, then.” She turned back to the stove and flipped the bacon. “Fix yourself some coffee.”
I walked to her coffeemaker and brewed myself a fresh cup. It was an expensive machine, probably the most expensive thing in the apartment, and it was clear she didn’t settle for less than the best when it came to her morning caffeine. I made my cup of coffee and sat at the dining table, watching her move around the kitchen and finish breakfast. It was a pleasant sight, her little shorts riding up quite a bit.
She set the plate of croissants on the table for us to share then served our meals. We both had a breakfast crepe with a side of bacon. She opened bottles of jam and honey and set them on the table too.
I sliced into the crepe with my fork and took a bite. “Fuck.”
She smirked as she chewed her own food.
“How did you do this?”
“I found the recipe online.”
“Anyone can follow a recipe, but that doesn’t mean it’ll taste as good as this.”
“I mean, I add a couple of other things. And I’m pretty generous with the butter.”
“And you made these?” I took a croissant and smeared the jam across the surface before I took a bite, the outside flaky and the inside warm and soft.
“Yep.”
“You should open a restaurant or something.”
She smirked then cut into her food.
“I’m serious.”
“It’s not as good as your chef’s cooking.”
“This shit is better. I’m not just saying that.”
“Because you’re always eating diet food. This is not diet food.”