Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
My gaze trailed over his hard abs, imagining what they would look like flexing and bunching as he drove into me.
Vance started across the room, and I couldn’t help but take a gander at the impressive bulge tucked neatly under that towel. Like the Moby Dick of cocks. I bit the inside of my lip and forced myself to stare at a loose thread on the comforter because, God, what was I thinking? Even one little joy ride was a stupid idea.
What if the sex were amazing? How could I expect myself to cut it off at once if it were great? That would be like buying a carton of smooth Italian gelato, eating one delicious spoonful, then tossing away the rest. Somehow, the thought of wasting gelato and orgasms almost seemed symbiotic… and if I couldn’t stop at one bowl of gelato, much less one spoonful, I could never have sex with Vance. Because aside from his looks, deep down, there was something about the time-freak I liked. Really liked…
His gaze locked on me when he stopped by my bed. “You’re acting weird.”
“How am I acting weird?”
“You’re being quiet.”
My internal thoughts weren’t. “Just hungover.”
“I liked drunk Blake.” There went that smirk. Oh, he definitely remembered. “She’s—” He ate the rest of that sentence when he tripped over my unpacked suitcase and went hurdling, headfirst, toward the sheetrock. His forehead cracked the corner of the wall before he slumped to the floor, clutching his head on a groan. “I told you that thing was a safety hazard.”
He had. After I’d fallen asleep in the shower yesterday, then torn through my luggage to find my sandals. I, of course, had ignored him on pure, petty principle.
I crawled to the end of the bed, my attention drifting to the way the towel split up his thigh. A few more inches and I was pretty sure I would see pierced cock.
I shoved off the bed and sank to my knees beside him. “Let me see it.”
“I’m fine,” he said, swatting at me when I reached for his hand.
“There’s a trickle of blood running down the bridge of your nose, Vance.” I reached for him again, and this time he dropped his hand, revealing a nice gash smack-dab in the middle of his forehead. I leaned in a little closer to inspect it—like I even knew what I was looking for—and his hot breath hit my chest. Goose bumps scattered across my skin. Parts of my body that shouldn’t be heating from a simple breath heated. Our gazes met, heady tension dancing between us.
His focus dropped to my lips. Mine went to his. How in the hell was I not supposed to kiss those things? Excitement darted through me when his hand cupped my jaw, fingers trailing over my skin. I had twelve more days of sharing hotel rooms with him. Giving in to this now would be nothing short of a complete blunder. Not just professionally but personally, too.
Just before he tugged me closer, I shoved to my feet.
“You need ice,” I blurted, heat bleeding through my body as I practically threw myself into the bathroom.
Do not give in to the hormones. I took a washcloth, went back into the room, and headed to the mini-fridge. After I’d wrapped up a few ice cubes, I took the washcloth to Vance and placed it against his forehead.
“I looked at your itinerary,” I said, trying to think about anything but how he’d just shifted and the gap in his towel had opened another inch.
He lifted a brow. “You did?”
“Yes.” I kept that I had only looked at it to help formulate an escape plan to myself. “And I’ve decided you must live in a constant state of anxiety.”
He took the cloth from me. “I do not.”
“Exactly what someone who lives in a constant state of anxiety would say.”
“And your knack for bad luck doesn’t keep you walking on a frazzled edge?”
“It just makes me extra vigilant about watching for flying pigeons.” I gathered a few of my stray shirts from the floor and chucked them onto the bed. “You made a note about sleeping in. If that doesn’t scream time anxiety, I don’t know what does.” I rummaged through my suitcase until I found my favorite green sundress with tiny daisies. “Who feels guilty about sleeping in?”
“I don’t feel guilty.” He dabbed the washcloth over his injured head. “And that note was more for you than me.”
“Are you trying to say you think I have a tendency to oversleep?” I did. I hit the snooze button an average of three times on any given day before I got out of bed.
“You’re late to work every day, Blake. And half the time, you put your makeup on at your desk.”
I fought a smile at the thought that he had paid that much attention to me.