Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 62641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
I slowly give in to this bad idea by opening my lips and letting my tongue sweep over his. He tastes like whisky. Rough, sweet, and also slightly spicy. Delicious. I knew he didn’t have water, coffee, milk, or juice in the mug. The kettle wasn’t plugged in, and the coffee maker wasn’t going. I knew it was something stronger.
Tasting the whisky on him makes me feel something wild and untamed that I’ve never previously discovered. I’ve let myself explore a few bad ideas before, and all of them ended in regrets. I have no doubt this will be any different. I need to stop this. Stop it before anything happens because I can’t leave Shade. I can’t make things awkward and horrible or give Luke a reason to fire me. I know I want to find another job and get out of here, but that seems like months down the road. I don’t want to leave Shade all alone, and I don’t want him to have to get to know another nanny. I’m already attached to him and really enjoy being with him.
Sometimes time really doesn’t mean anything. It’s not a good measure of care or affection. I have to stop this. Even, surprisingly, as much as I don’t want to. I need to get this under control. I need…no, I don’t need to part my lips, I don’t need to whimper into Luke’s mouth, I don’t need to curl my body around his hard planes, I don’t need to dig my fingers into the tight muscle at the back of his neck, and I don’t need to sweep my tongue into his mouth. I also don’t need to sigh and whimper like I might be dying, and I don’t need his strong, steady hands at my waist to hold me up because my legs are suddenly watery. I don’t need…
I sweep one hand down over Luke’s soft cotton t-shirt and onto his chest. I push into the granite there without any strength whatsoever. I try again, putting more force into it, but it doesn’t help because I’m still kissing him furiously, attacking his mouth. I’m still…
I have to stop. I have to freaking stop this. What am I even thinking?
Finally, I do manage to put some weight behind my hand. I make my feet move, and my legs cooperate. I untangle our tongues and lips and tear my mouth from Luke’s.
I even take a step back, physically separating us and putting some distance between us.
“We can’t,” I rasp. At least that’s what I think I said. My lady cave might have spoken up and said something like, fuck yes, can we take this to your room or mine? Which has a greater chance of us not being overheard?
Jesus. Do Luke’s eyes have to be so dark and bedroom-y and hooded? Does he have to look at me like he’d enjoy nothing better than to unwrap me like a present from underneath the tree in the living room and devour me?
He keeps watching my lips, but he’s all casual now. Way too casual. He doesn’t look disturbed in the least by what just happened. I know he did not expect it, but now he’s acting like he doesn’t even care it happened, and somehow, that’s worse than anything. Meanwhile, I’m standing here with my thighs aching, my crotch about to explode, and the rest of my body parts turned into some unidentified rubbery goo, kind of like an old piece of chewing gum that’s been melted into the sidewalk.
My eyes flick down. I can’t help it. Down past the deliciously loose t-shirt hiding his rock-hard chest, down past the jeans that sit casually on hips meant for doing so much more than just standing there. Down to the bulge that I can literally see in his jeans. I know it’s there because I could feel it poking me in the thigh while we were pressed against each other.
Dear god, it’s not a small bulge.
“This is the worst Christmas ever!” I hiss. I try to spin on my heels and walk out of the kitchen, but Luke catches my hand. He wraps his long fingers around mine, and they are strong, masculine, and probably very talented.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because! We…we can’t do this. You can’t kiss me, and I can’t kiss you. It’s against the rules.”
“What rules?”
Why now, of all times, do his eyes have to sparkle with amusement? He should be freaking out. He should be pissed. He shouldn’t be looking freaking happier than he has any other time I’ve seen him. I almost wish he’d go back to being sad, tragic, and missing his wife. God. We were talking about his wife, who passed away, who he misses, and also about how this time of year sucks, how every time of the year sucks, how it all sucks. Then he kissed me. Or maybe I kissed him. Anyway, a kiss happened. How is it not wrong just because of when it happened?