Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
“You can take care of that anytime.”
His low laughter against my neck is a physical thrill. “Aren’t you listening? I’ve wanked myself half to death since you moved in.”
My brain short-circuits; the realization, that base word—those images—they’re too hot to process.
“Does that shock you?”
I shake my head.
“And if I asked you to watch?”
Ho-ly heck. “I’m not sure how that would help.”
“It wouldn’t hurt either.”
Innuendo. It makes me chuckle, at least until his hands slip under my T-shirt and up my naked back. His approval is a low hum as he realizes I’m braless.
“I’m not having sex with you.” God, I ache for him. But torment and annoy. Maintain the upper hand—those were my plans. If I give in, everything changes. If I give in, it means not only that I can’t trust him but also that I can’t trust myself.
I shouldn’t muddy the waters any more than they are—it’s been hard enough to fight the brand of sweetness he’s shown me this week. The peanut butter and the fancy-Italian-chocolate spread that appeared on my breakfast tray. In my book, there isn’t a Monday that can’t be faced because of the existence of Nutella, and I’m not sure where he learned that about me.
He made sure the hotel ordered Bo’s kibble and arranged for one of the porters to take him for an extra afternoon walk. A little self-serving, sure, because a tired dog is a sleeping dog, not one disposed to crotch-sniffing antics. He didn’t even make that big of a deal about waking in the wee hours on Tuesday to the sound of continual flushing water. That was the day we learned Bo prefers to drink running water. It’s just a pity he learned to work the toilet and not the bidet. Not that it mattered, considering a doggy water fountain turned up in the suite that same day.
I know Oliver has a mile-wide determined streak, but it seems to be rolled into a sweet cinnamon bun. Unless it’s all a ploy, and he’s an expert at playing the long game.
But we don’t have forever. Ten weeks at my last count.
“Who’d be having sex?” he purrs.
“You. With your hand, I heard.”
“I imagine you watching. Every night.” I feel him swallow and love that tiny contradiction to his tone. “Your eyes dark and your breath held, anticipating every slide and twist. The tiny gasp as I paint your neck and your chest.”
I’m hot. Bothered. Wet. This is so wrong, but I want it. Want him. “Still sounds like sex,” I hear myself say, ever his antagonist.
“It can be whatever we want it to be.”
I press my hands to the side of his face. “Well, look at you, getting all persuasive.”
“Because it doesn’t have to mean anything?” That haughty brow spikes before I can answer as he adds, “Nothing about this is careless.”
“I’m still not having sex with you,” I answer as I bring his face to mine.
There are no words to explain this. I no longer possess the will to condense this heat and need into reason as my fingers tangle in his hair and our mouths fuse. The hot, hard feel of him is incredible as his lips weave the magic I so remember. Slow, slick slides and deep, dirty tongue. He kisses like he fucks, and I’d be lying if I said he’s the only one who has trouble sleeping. The only one who resorts to touching themselves at the memory. I turn a little wild at the thought. This is madness, but I can’t seem to stop myself.
“Not in the kitchen.”
He doesn’t seem to immediately register that my hands are still around his neck, that I’m pulling him. Come with me, my biting kisses say. He follows, and we stumble from the room. No sooner are we through the door than I find myself backed up against the other side of the wall.
“My room”—his hips press against mine, the thick length of him enough to make a girl swoon—“or yours.”
“No beds,” I rasp.
“Don’t need one.” He takes my hands, almost slamming them to the wall. He gives a slow, dirty roll of his hips, and everything draws tight inside me.
“Good.” I push him in the center of his chest, stepping after him. “Because we won’t be using one.”
In answer, he spins me, lowering me swiftly to one of the pair of long couches.
“I mean it,” I say as his body follows. “Not sex.” I’m not at all convinced what my deal with penetration is. I want him. He wants me. But I’m still not giving in.
“She who holds the pussy, holds the power.” His hands on either side of my head, he looms over me.
“Freak.” My hand trails lower, plucking at the waist of his running shorts. “Take these off.”
A slice of moonlight cuts across his broad chest as he straightens, his eyes turning silvery as he pulls on the cord at his waist. “Take off your T-shirt. Give me something to work with.”