Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“I shaved it all off?” There’s a note of something in his tone that flusters me.
“Not that it doesn’t look good,” I add quickly. His shorn head makes him brutally good looking, all tan skin and knife-sharp cheekbones. “You have a nicely shaped head.”
“Thanks,” he answers, not bothering to hide his amusement.
“It shows off your bone structure.”
“My bone structure,” he repeats in an entirely different tone. One that makes me feel shivery and hot with a resonance of a night I can’t fully remember.
Trust me to have missed out on all the fun.
“I’m just saying it’s not horrific or anything,” I say, sounding prickly now. “I’m paying you a compliment.”
“You did that last night.”
“Oh. Right.”
“When you told me how good my head felt on the inside of your thighs.”
How annoying that he remembers more than me. Or maybe he doesn’t and he’s just filling in the blanks randomly.
“But why listen to me if it was just a temporary color? Why did you cut it?”
“I didn’t.”
I press my fingers to my chest in silent question. Fin nods, not bothering to hide how much he’s enjoying our exchange.
“That settles it. You might remember more than me, but you must’ve been under the influence of something too. Why else would you’ve handed me the clippers?”
He gives a tiny flicker-like shrug. “Maybe I’ve just never had a naked haircut before.”
“Were you naked?” He begins to smile, and my hand shoots out like a stop sign. “No need to answer that.”
“You kept your panties on.”
But not for long, I recall, as another image rises between us. Fin, bare chested, as I stand between the V of his legs. His hands cupping my hips, his gaze heavy lidded as his thumb skims over my nipple.
“But I think you had to put them back on first,” he says, pressing his hand to his chin as he feigns deep thought.
“Urgh!” I begin to inelegantly worm my way to the edge of the bed while keeping the sheet banded tight to my chest. “You are the worst,” I retort, throwing the words over my shoulder.
Error! Error! my feeble brain offers as the sheet slides from Fin’s body.
He makes no attempt to stop it, rather rolling onto his back and stretching out as though enjoying the glide of the high thread count somewhere sensitive. Or maybe to display its effect as the white cotton tents over his groin. And that is no half-erected yurt.
“All evidence points to you being correct,” he drawls, as he slides one hand under his head.
“Have you no shame?” I mutter, half-crouched, one foot on the floor and one bum cheek still connected to the mattress.
“None,” he replies quite happily.
Clutching the sheet at both the front and the back, I stand when the corner of a condom wrapper pokes me in the foot.
At least we were safe, I think, dragging the sheet in the direction of the bathroom.
Safe again, I think as I notice another. And another.
No wonder I’m shuffling.
“You’d better get used to it,” he calls happily after me.
“As if,” I snark back. “I choose not to be awed by your magnificence.”
“Magnificence.” The word brims with satisfaction as I reach the bathroom door, where I turn. Just to be sure he feels the full effect of my retort. Or so I tell myself.
“Feel free to make yourself decent while I’m gone.”
“Oh, it’s far too late for that, honeybuns,” he purrs, stretching along the bed like a cat.
But I am awed by his magnificence, and we both know it as I slam the bathroom door belatedly.
Chapter 8
Mila
Twenty minutes later, I’m ready to emerge from the cavernous bathroom and face whatever the day—and my new torturer, Fin DeWitt—have to throw at me. I’m pink and scrubbed clean, smelling of expensive bathing products and minty fresh thanks to the complimentary eco toothbrush and paste. As I step gingerly across the tiles, I press my fingers to the sides of my aching jaw, rotating it a little, thanks to whatever went down last night.
Oh, the potential puns.
Fine, so I might not know what went down but at least I now know who. I push the knowledge away and ignore my stinging cheeks as I cinch the belt on the thick white robe I found hanging on a hook in the bathroom.
I give a quick twirl in the mirror. Honeybuns, he called me. Plural.
I pinch in a smile, silently admonishing myself as I slide my feet into an oversize pair of hotel slippers. Taking a deep breath, I pull the door open to . . .
An anticlimactic slump.
The bed is empty, though the room is still trashed. Clothes seem to cover every surface, though they’re mostly his, considering I wore only four items of clothing yesterday. Maybe three? I don’t think I was wearing the veil when we reached the suite. And definitely not Sarai’s shoes.