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)
“That ass is a work of art. Don’t you know a man likes a little jiggle when he spanks it.”
“Dream on.” She snorts. “Because that is never going to happen.”
At least until you remember it already has.
“And it’s very ungentlemanly of you to mention such things.” She bristles, her movements jerky and her retort staccato.
“Dammit, you’ve guessed my secret. I’m no gentleman,” I say, dropping my head to roll the ridiculous fedora down my arm and into my hand.
She tsks. “It’s no secret, because a gentleman doesn’t accuse his companion of wearing a tent.”
“Looks like a—”
“My cover-up might look like a circus tent, but at least I’m not a clown.”
I grin but don’t bite, rolling the hat in the opposite direction. Palm to arm, arm to head. A trick my grandfather taught me, back when he was alive and our relationship extended to tricks and lighthearted moments.
“You’d prefer me to lie to you? Just let me know, because I don’t want to get it wrong when you ask me ‘Does my arse look big in this?’” I intone in Brit-speak and an octave or two higher.
“You are delusional if you think—”
“And you have a glorious ass. I want to squeeze it. Bite it. Ride it.”
“I think you’re managing that last one quite well already. Talk about reversal of stereotypes, because you’re a nag.”
“You know that’s not what I mean. Let the record show, if it doesn’t already, that I’m a fan of your ass. Its number one fan, in fact.”
“Delusional and ridiculous. Look, are we going to go to the beach or not?” she demands.
“Is the hat staying?” I point to it.
Mila inhales and pushes the breath forcefully from her nose. “Fine. I’ll go and change.”
The next time Mila leaves the bedroom, it’s in a sarong that’s knotted at the back of her neck. It’s dark, flowing, and pretty, but still conceals all that goodness beneath. Same goes for the wide-brimmed hat, which she grabs as we leave.
The sunglasses she doesn’t take. Mainly because I’ve hidden them.
I lead her out through the private garden, lush with palm trees and bright tropical plants; citrus-colored gingers, vividly pink hibiscus, and birdlike heliconia sway in the mild breeze.
“The steps are pretty steep,” I warn as I pull the heavy wooden door closed behind us. “And there are a lot.”
“But the view makes it worthwhile,” she answers, gathering the sarong away from her knees.
“Yeah, it does,” I say, staring at her ass. “Maybe you should take that off. For safety.”
“Good try.” That smile, or half of it in profile, twists something deep in my gut. I watch as she holds the rail and begins to descend, to move away, when I’m hit by a wave of sorrow. The sensation is fleeting, the reason not fully formed, as I begin to jog down the steps to reach her.
“I meant to ask,” I say, once alongside her again. “Do you think Elton John will want his sunglasses back?”
“You would try the patience of a saint,” she murmurs serenely. “Six days. I can cope for six days.”
That melancholy tightens in my chest, the unformed thought taking root in my head. One day soon I’ll watch as she walks out of my life.
“Six days,” I repeat, banishing the thought. “What are we going to do with six whole days?”
“I don’t know about you, but I’m going to enjoy a little sun, sea, and—”
“Sex?”
Her lovely lips twist. “I was going to say serenity, but I realize that’s not possible where you are.”
“And you can’t have a honeymoon without a groom.”
She makes an unhappy sound, and we both fall quiet until we reach the bottom step. Mila hops from it like an excited kid, beaming at the stretch of golden sand.
“It’s deserted,” she says, a tiny bit breathless. Which makes me think about sex. Who am I kidding? After last night, everything about her makes me think about sex. Her hair smells like night jasmine and her skin is so smooth, it’s like I can’t get enough of her.
“It’s a private beach.”
“Really?” She turns quickly, and her expression steals my breath, her dark eyes sparkling with wonder and delight. Then, “Oh!” Her foot sinks into the fine sand, twisting in her sandal and making her almost topple. I reach out and grab her arm.
“Careful.” Electricity shoots through me at the touch. Our eyes meet, hers umber in the afternoon light as I suffer the strangest sensation. I want her to look at me with that kind of wonder. I want to be the source of her delight.
“A private beach.” The tiniest tip of her tongue darts out to wet her lips as her eyes drop to my mouth.
It would be easy to lean in, press my lips to hers, but I won’t. I can make myself open to the prospect, but the first move has to be hers. A chance encounter with a stranger in a dark closet is one thing. Getting to know her, feeling something for her—connection, attraction, and more—that all changes things.