Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 99545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
My breath quickens.
I’m grateful I cannot see if anyone is watching us, grateful both our backs are now to the crowded café, grateful for the weight of his warm hands.
I don’t push him away or rebuff him. Rather, I do something that surprises even myself; I cover his left hand with mine. Tilt my head to get a better look at him, presenting him with the side of my face.
“What are you doing?” I mutter, a little unsure.
“Kissing you.”
Kissing you.
Kissing you…
Is it wrong that I hold my breath and wait for his lips to touch my skin? Is it wrong that I want to feel the unshaved whiskers on his face? Is it wrong that his breath on my skin makes me shiver?
Is it wrong?
“You smell so good.” His voice tickles my eardrum as he whispers in my ear, the delicious words causing the butterflies in my stomach to awaken. Stir. Flutter their wings and stretch. “Like breakfast.”
It’s not even the accent I’m reacting to—it’s Jack. His entire being makes me giddy, and the fact that we have this amazing chemistry without having tried…it’s so perplexing and compelling to me. Really, I’ve been doing the opposite of trying—I’ve been pushing him away. Pushing away the feelings I’m developing for him in order to make someone else happy, wholly disregarding my own happiness.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it.
Right there in Lords Café, he kisses my neck, the spot I love most. The spot that sends shivers and tingles up my spine, through my entire body. So easy. So simple.
That one little spot.
“Did I mention how delicious I think you smell?”
Did he?
Do I?
I can’t remember.
I give the briefest of nods. “Mmm.”
“Like cake.” He kisses below my earlobe, humming. “I love cake.”
Uh-huh.
I nod again.
“I love licking the frosting.”
“Jack,” I chastise, though for what I do not know. Jack, stop being so sexy? Jack, stop whispering sexy things? Jack, let’s get out of here and make out somewhere else?
“Eliza,” he chastises back playfully, planting another kiss on my neck. “You taste good, too.”
“Um” is the only sound that comes out of my mouth.
Part of me is embarrassed he’s kissing me in public when we haven’t even held hands or hugged.
I don’t know how to react to it, other than to let my eyelids flutter closed when he kisses my jawline. I want to reach my arms up and wrap them around his neck, pulling him in closer, hungry for the intimacy.
“I can’t wait to eat that muffin.”
Huh? “That’s my muffin,” I tell him, extending my arm so my hand can claim it.
“It sure is.” He chuckles low in my ear.
“Don’t be a pervert.”
“I’m not being a pervert, I’m stating facts. It is in fact your muffin I want to eat.”
I sputter out a nervous laugh, breaking the spell, his mouth still buried in the crook of my neck, in the hood of my sweatshirt.
The server appears, holding a large plate and a teapot, watching us with wide eyes, her mouth dropping open slightly, and who could blame her?
She clears her throat. “Um, hey. Here we have um, four eggs, sausages, um, toast. Um.”
She couldn’t have heard that thing about my muffin, could she?
Hard to tell, but she’s blushing rather furiously.
“How long has it been since you’ve had sex? You’re acting like you’ve had a dry spell for years.”
He shrugs, adjusting the plates on the table, consolidating them so the server can bus the table easier when she comes by to see how things taste.
“I’m a sex camel.”
Come again?
He loads a piece of his toast with egg and a bit of sausage. “You know—I can go a long time without needing it. Had to as my ex-girlfriend was a bit stingy with it.”
His ex-girlfriend.
This is the first time he’s mentioned an actual person, filling the void from all my previous speculation about how easily he could cheat, or have a girlfriend back home in England.
“When did y’all break up?”
He chews for a bit then swallows. “Eight months or so ago? Don’t know exactly, if I’m being honest. We broke up, then I decided to move.”
I have so many questions now.
What is your ex like? How long were the two of you together? Does your family like her?
Does she still contact you?
Why did you break up?
So many, beginning with, “Who broke up with who?”
Such a rude question and a personal one—plus, it’s none of my business who broke up with whom, and what difference would it make if she broke up with him?
“I did. Caroline was…” He pauses, searching for the right words. “Difficult to get on with.”
Difficult to get on with.
That’s a poetic way to describe it, and I’m left to form my own opinions about what that actually means since he doesn’t go into detail.
“Just wasn’t a good match?”
He laughs, wiping the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “No.”