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)
Cute.
Sexy.
Self-conscious now because I’m watching her, Peyton ducks her head and bites her bottom lip, shying away from my intense gaze. But I can’t help it. I want to suck on her lip and brush her hair aside and suck on her neck, too.
For starters.
We’re through with our meal and when the waiter comes back with a dessert menu, I offer it to her. You want? I question her with my brows.
Do you?
No.
“I have a bottle of wine at my place.”
My place, which is just around the corner—within walking distance. How convenient.
“Just the check.”
“Very good, sir.” The waiter nods, pulling a narrow, black leather folder out of his apron. Lands it on my side of the table, and without hesitating, I hand him my credit card.
“Dessert at your place?” Peyton asks. “Do you actually have any?”
“Not really.” I’m looking at it, though. “Want to come over for a nightcap?”
She visibly swallows, brushes the hair falling over her shoulder to one side, and sits up straighter in her chair. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
PEYTON
We’regonnabang, we’regonnabang, we’regonnabang. I can’t keep the chant out of my head. I just know we’re going to—I can tell by the way Rome is watching me; like I’m the tastiest thing on the menu.
His hand singeing the small of my back, we walk the dark, damp streets of New York, dodging people the entire three-block walk to his place.
By way of necessity, because I’m wearing high heels, I grasp his forearm and hold steady after the first time my heel gets caught in a sewer grate and almost snaps.
Rome steadies me the remaining block.
One. More. Block.
My heart wants to vomit, it’s fluttering so fast.
We’re at a building with a doorman wearing a green jacket; he smiles, nods, and pulls the heavy door open with a flourish, ushering us inside the opulent lobby.
Somehow, the building too feels demanding; too high-end. Too glossy and cold, as if it has high expectations of anyone walking through the door.
I tilt my chin up.
Brace my back against the cool metal elevator walls when the doors open and we step in, riding to the top floor. When it dings and slides back open, Rome sheds his coat by the door.
I do the same, and hang it by the door, and turn to face him.
Just like everything else he does, he wastes no time focusing on what he wants and taking it with precise movements. Sure and confident, he walks to me, hands settling on my waist.
I back up until I’m pressed gently against the wall, his hot mouth settling on my neck just below my ear. He sucks on my earring, earning himself an eye-roll—the erotic kind, where my eyes damn near roll to the back of my head.
“Wanna tour of the place now, or in the morning?”
Whoa.
We’re doing this.
It.
Banging.
“In the morning, after you feed me pancakes with lots of butter and syrup,” I moan, luxuriating in the feel of his warm breath.
“I don’t have any pancake batter,” he murmurs back.
“Mmm. You better get some, or these clothes aren’t coming off.”
He rears back to study my expression. “Are you fucking for real?”
I laugh. “Yes. I want pancakes.”
His grumble is hilarious. Sexy. “Fine. God, you’re bossy.”
“Mm-hmm.” I pull his mouth back down, square on mine, opening for him so his tongue can slip in. It does, and mine dances with his, rolling. Twirling.
Wet and hot.
Kind of dirty, we lap each other up. I am kissing Rome Blackburn. Kissing. Rome. And it’s even hotter, even better, even more intense than I thought possible. But now there is a need alive in me that I have to take. Now.
“Show me your bedroom.”
Holy crap, did I just say that? That is so unlike me. I might think about saying things like that, but I’ve certainly never said anything like it out loud to a man before.
Nevertheless, Rome clearly likes it, because he reaches down, and before I know it, he’s scooping me up and carrying me down his entry hall. Doesn’t stop until he enters a dark room, bumping the outlet with his elbow and two bedside table lights flicker on.
They’re dim—more mood lighting than for efficiency—casting a beautiful glow over his dark bedroom. It’s just like I pictured it: large and imposing, with huge panoramic windows overlooking the borough. The sky is lit up from the city, and although the view is obstructed from all the tall buildings, it’s still spectacular.
Concrete floors. Gray bed. White bedding, which surprises me. Black everything else. Stern and serious.
Cold and unrelenting.
Everything I thought he was before I got to know him.
I move toward him, fiddling with the blue tie around his neck, then loosen it until I’m able to lift it over his head, toss it aside, but close enough that I can use it later for . . . whatever reason.