Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Except…
Why is he looking at me like that? With a little bit of smoldering in his eyes? And why do those burning, golden flecks that stand out so well here in the late evening sunshine hit my lungs like a pack of arrows ripping through my chest?
Breathe. Yeah, good advice until it becomes impossible.
The dress I have on is best suited to not wearing a very obvious padded bra underneath, so I went with a more toned-down choice. Simple lace and fabric. No underwire. I like these kinds better anyway since they’re so much more comfortable. The problem? It makes it very obvious when I have a nipple thing going on. And I have a nipple thing going on now. As in, they could rip their way right through a sheet of plywood.
Thankfully, Mont’s eyes sweep away, out to the water, and not down my chest.
I take advantage of the privacy that his heated gaze tearing away from me affords and step out into the sand. I angle my body in what I hope is the right direction to not showcase my rock-hard nipple problem. I still can’t breathe properly.
Especially not when I imagine Mont’s mouth closing over one nipple and then the other. Naked. Closing over my naked nipples while his hand strokes lower, igniting all the fires everywhere.
Christ.
That isn’t going to happen. For one, this was like a goodbye thing. It’s not a hello thing. Connor was wrong. He was wrong about me, and he was wrong about Mont and probably everything else. I wonder how Genevieve is doing with him. She’s always liked a challenge, and she generally picks the bad boys when she dates. Connor fits the bill ten times over, at least in the troubled department. Then again, maybe he just had a bad day. Or a bad week. It happens. If Mont kept the first impression of me that I made when we first met, he’d be sure I have zero redeeming qualities.
We fall into a comfortable pace, walking along leisurely, well away from the water. It’s pretty much impossible to walk fast in an abundance of sand. Dry or wet, quicksand or regular sand, it automatically slows you down. Maybe that’s why people are so drawn to the beach. The pace of life gets turned down a few notches, and you can just forget about all your problems while you’re there.
Mont in a henley is hot. Mont in anything would be gorgeous. But Mont in nothing would be…unthinkable. As in, don’t you even dare let your brain go there.
It’s been a while since I’ve dated anyone for real. I get the appeal of casual encounters, I really do, but they’ve just never been for me, so that means it’s also been a hot minute since my vagina has been acquainted with anything other than my fingers or my vibrator. Anything testosterone-related hasn’t crossed the threshold of my panties in…erm…almost a year. God.
Mont is all muscly, glorious, and gorgeous, but the long dry spell explains why I’m not having such a dry spell south of the border at the moment.
It wouldn’t happen for just anyone.
I happen to know that this man loves crabs.
He’s generous with his employees.
He cares about people.
He adores his family to the point where he’s willing to make absurd sacrifices not to hurt their feelings.
He doesn’t mind that his friends are kind of troubled, even though most people would go out of their way to avoid them. Instead, he probably sits there and truly listens.
He’s a ridiculously hard worker.
He’s shy when it comes to talking about himself, whereas most people just can’t ever shut up.
Okay, and on top of that, he’s also as hot as a scorching summer day multiplied by the power of a blazing sun multiplied by Mercury. Mercury is a hot, hot planet, people.
There’s no way Connor was right. This was just convenience, and now it’s him being nice and saying goodbye and thanks. Connor was not right. Connor was not right. Connor was not right.
But what if?
Every step I take, my hormones start a full-body chant. What if, what if, what if?
Before, I thought if I’d never met Mont, I could have avoided so much trouble. And now? There’s a huge part of me that knows I’ll miss him, not just his mercury-level hotness. I’ll miss our conversations, our sparring. I’ll miss going for weird crab combos. And I’ll miss thinking that if I ever noticed someone again, I’d be tougher this time around. That was such a load of hopeful bull. I’m not tougher.
I’m walking too close. Our footsteps are muted by the sand, and I’m no longer thinking about how it feels like warm, soft velvet or how it smells like salt out here. Instead, I’m thinking I’d like to get closer to Mont than I already am. Close enough to take a chance and possibly brush my fingers against his. Close enough to see if Connor was right. To see if those sparks might be real. I’m thinking about how he smells like his usual—trees reserved just for men—and how that henley highlights all his arm and chest muscles and how those jeans look really good on his legs and hips and the rest of him that I’m not supposed to be thinking about. Maybe if he did take my hand, I might do something silly like never wash it again. Kidding. Possibly.