Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
“I’m going to let you dream about it, but that’s no guarantee that I’m coming back soon except for more of that wine.” I feign hard-to-get-ness simply because if things end up working out with this guy, which would be a miracle (but hey, I’m trying to believe), then I want to have a story to tell our kids where I’m not a complete slut in it.
His chuckle rumbles under my ear. “I’m still getting the sheets.”
I nod and press a little closer because he feels better than any sheet, and who would have thought I’d ever get to curl up with my Suit like this? He looks so handsome I could eat him up and lick the whole damn spoon.
“Good night, Sara.”
I stop smiling and force myself to stop the room from spinning, grabbing onto him as an anchor. “Good night, Ian.” My voice softens, and then suddenly for a tiny moment, I want to cry. I’ve always been such a sad drunk, all emotional and whiney.
Right now I don’t want to whine, though. I feel… grateful. I don’t know if it’s to him, for making me feel so alive, so hot, and so interesting, or to the universe, for giving me hope that maybe love will find a way, after all.
Not that I love him. No. Hey, I barely know the guy.
But there’s an odd little tug in my heart whenever I’m close to him, and I’m excited to figure out what it’s all about.
FLESH AND BLOOD
Sara
I wake up disconcerted for a second until I peer through my eyelids to see him. He’s still in his suit. His lashes rest against his cheekbones. His arm is around me as I spoon his side. This is really nice, I realize. I should go home, but I don’t want to. I want this guy, even though there’s a dull thudding in my head. I can’t believe a guy who’s real flesh and blood—not an image on a movie screen, or in a magazine or book—can make me want like this.
I hear him shift and turn his face to rest his chin on the top of my head. He inhales and exhales with a soft groan before easing his arm out from under me and stepping into the bathroom.
I hear the soft close of the bathroom door and the sound of the shower turn on.
I smile perversely knowing he’s probably taking care of himself in there, or at least turning the faucet to cold. He was hard against my stomach most of the night and I delighted in pushing closer to him. I love that he wants me like this.
I drift in and out of sleep, and the next time my eyes pop open he is standing before me, in all his damp glory, his chest glistening wet, his dark hair slicked back, and a towel around his hips. My perverse smile fades. Now the joke’s on me. I ache all over, from my breasts to way down between my legs. My heart a little bit, too.
He’s gorgeous, yes, but he’s more than that. He let me dance for him and appeared to love it. He took me on my dream date to a show. He is kind to his grandmother and her dog. He’s a hard worker. I even admire the fact that he’s not making false promises just to get me in bed. I respect that. I respect him.
I sit up in bed groggily and push my hair from my face. “I hope you made the shower water very cold, Ford.”
“I hope you will remember how many hours you tortured me with that pretty little bum when I adjust our accounts.”
I laugh and lower my gaze to admire the rest of him. God, he’s even got great feet. His calves are muscular and strong, dusted with fine hair. The muscles all over his body are chiseled and hard like a granite sculpture. His abs are at my eye level as he plays with his phone.
“I’m ordering us breakfast. What’ll you have?”
“Breakfast in bed? For me?” I grin. When he only smiles and drags his eyes along my form on his bed, I add, “Just coffee.”
“Two espressos,” he says, typing up the order.
“No. No espresso. I can’t take espresso in the morning. It makes my stomach hurt. Just a regular with almond milk and a stevia packet. Please.”
He smiles and clicks to complete the order, then heads to the closet to get dressed.
“Your head hurt?” He drops the towel and slides into his boxers and slacks, and I blink at the sight of his muscular ass before he covers it.
“No,” I answer, meeting his gaze as he turns. “Does yours?” I let my eyes linger down to where his dick is covered.
He tsks and shakes his head as he grabs a clean shirt from the closet and starts buttoning it up, his gaze once again greedy as he drinks me in. “Get your lovely ass out of bed. I’ll get you something for that hangover.”