Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86573 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86573 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“Are you trying to distract me from my pancakes?” she asks, tilting her head to the side to give me more access to her neck.
“Is it working?”
“First calling me babe, now this, I would say maybe it is.”
“Maybe? Or definitely?”
“Mmm . . .” she moans when I slip my hands under the shirt and move them up to her rib cage, just under her perfect breasts.
Fuck, I can’t get enough of her. Every time we’re in the same room, I can feel my need for her grow to an uncomfortable level, that if I don’t take her right then and there, I might explode.
“Your skin is so soft,” I mumble, bringing my hands to her breasts where I pinch her nipples.
Her head falls back, her hair floating down with her as her legs wrap around my back.
I twist and turn the little nubs between my fingers, working my mouth along her skin, desperate to make her come just from nipple play. She did last night, and it was the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen, her head thrashing about, her pelvis thrusting up at mine, looking for relief of the pressure building until she came all on her own, my fingers plucking at her sensitive breasts.
I want that again.
I stroke my thumbs over the ends and pinch. Repeat the process over and over again until she’s panting, her fingers gripping on the edge of the countertop. Her mouth parts open, her chest heaves.
Fuck, yes. She’s so close . . .
I’m about to bring my mouth down on hers as the door to my apartment flies open, slamming into the wall, startling the ever-living fuck out of the both of us.
“Rome?” a panicked Hunter calls out right before he spots me in the kitchen, my hands up a scared Peyton who is now clutching onto me, arms wrapped around my neck. “Oh.” A giant smile crosses over Hunter’s face.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I sneer, about to kill my best friend.
“I, uh, I thought you were dead or something.” He pulls on the back of his neck, and that wicked smile is still on his face.
“Why the hell would you think I was dead?”
“Because” —he shifts on his feet— “you didn’t show up to work. You’re always at work. You missed a meeting. I thought maybe the whole Project Mountain thing got to you and you keeled over in your apartment. I didn’t want you to be dead cold on your cement floors all by yourself.”
I’m about to answer when Peyton turns her head, giving Hunter quite the shock when she shows her face. “Don’t worry about Project Mountain, Hunter, I got it all covered.”
He chuckles and nods his head. “You sure do, don’t you?”
“You can leave now.”
Standing on his toes, he eyes the bag on the counter and points to it. “What’s in there?” He sniffs the air. “Pancakes?”
“Get. The. Fuck. Out.” I point to the door.
Holding up his hands, he starts to back away. “You can at least say thank you for making sure you’re not dead.”
“Don’t make him leave. He can join us for breakfast.” Peyton flips her hair to the side.
The fuck he can stay. No way in hell is Hunter going to join us for pancakes. I have plans for breakfast, and they don’t involve my best friend who can shovel a trough of food in his mouth and still be hungry.
“He’s not joining us for breakfast.”
Shutting the door. Hunter pats his stomach and walks toward the kitchen where he snags the bag and takes it to the dining table. “Grab napkins, bro, things might get messy.”
Jesus Christ.
* * *
“Pass the syrup.” Hunter makes grabby hands at me as I lean back in my chair, completely and utterly irritated that he took over my morning and Peyton seems to be enjoying it. But every time she glances my way with that fucking cute and huge smile on her face, I can’t really be angry. She’s too gorgeous. Happy. With me. And my idiot friend.
I push the syrup toward him and watch him drench a stack of pancakes while popping a piece of bacon in his mouth. “I like your outfit, by the way, Peyton. Very I had a lot of sex last night look.”
“Watch it,” I grit out, pulling a piece of bacon off his plate.
“What? It’s a compliment.” He smiles and winks at Peyton who’s blushing, the pink of her cheeks so goddamn endearing.
She fluffs the collar up and says, “Thanks. It’s from Rome’s hamper. Can you believe that? So chic.”
Mouth full, he points his fork at her, brown syrup dripping off the ends and onto my two-thousand-dollar table. “Very becoming on you and the no bra”—he gives her an okay sign while turning his lips down and nodding—“nice touch.”
I’m about to punch him in the damn teeth if he doesn’t stop complimenting my girl.