Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
“So do you, sweetheart.” I pull the blanket away, her robe parting, one rosy nipple peeking out of the silk, and I’m inspired. I take a bite of ice cream, set it aside, and, with the cold sweetness in my mouth, pull Faith down to the ground with me, aligning our bodies, my mouth finding her exposed nipple.
I suckle it while she sucks in air, her hands going to my head. “It’s cold,” she pants, arching her back.
“I’ll warm you up,” I promise, taking another bite of the ice cream and kissing her again, and damn, every moan and sigh she makes affects me. She affects me. For once, I’m with a woman and not thinking about tits and ass and fucking her to take the edge off before I get back to what’s important: work. I’m thinking about Faith’s next moan and sigh. And my mouth and hands are on a journey for more of everything Faith will give me. A journey that leads me to that sweet spot between her legs and a promise I made: next time, I won’t stop. And I don’t. I lick her clit. I lick into her sex. I fuck her with my mouth and pull back. Then I tenderly lick again, teasing both of us in the process. And do it all over again. I take pleasure in driving her to the edge, but this time, I take even more pleasure in that last desperate lift of her hips, the way she trembles with my fingers inside her, right before she shatters under my tongue. And what I’m left with is a journey that hasn’t changed. It’s still the quest for more. I want more from this woman, who might just literally be the death of me if I’m not careful. And yet, that doesn’t matter.
I still want more.
Chapter Fourteen
Tiger
I blink awake to the scent of vanilla and amber, the silky strands of Faith’s blonde hair tickling my nose, and the sweet press of her naked next to me. The fireplace is burning to my right, the rug is beneath me, and the sun is burning through a window in a blinding bright light. Someone is also holding their damn finger on the doorbell.
Faith jolts awake and sits up, the blanket falling to just the right spot to expose her creamy white back and to cover my morning wood. I’d have claimed her if not for the incessant doorbell ringing. “Any idea who that asshole is?” I ask irritably, preferring to wake up with this woman in a much different way.
“I’ll handle it,” Faith says, avoiding my query, her fingers diving into her hair before she pops to her feet and takes the blanket with her. The result: my wood is officially on display, while someone is now pounding on the door.
Faith lets out a low, frustrated sound. “I need to throw on clothes,” she says, rushing toward her bedroom, sadly never even noticing said morning wood, which only makes me more irritated at the incessant ringing now consuming the entire damn space.
I push to my feet and grab my pants, and in the thirty seconds it takes me to pull them on, the doorbell has stopped ringing and started again. Running hands through my tangled hair, compliments of Faith’s fingers, I walk to her bedroom, my gaze landing on that card on the bed before the empty space leads me through to the bathroom. I find Faith standing in her closet, pulling a T-shirt into place and already wearing black sweatpants. “Who the hell is that?” I ask again.
“I don’t know,” she says, shoving her feet into Keds, “but as embarrassing as this is about to get, I’m guessing it has to be one of the bill collectors from the winery.”
“As in plural?” I ask. “There’s more than the bank chasing you for money?”
Her expression tightens, right along with her reply. “Yes. It’s every vendor we use, and no one would stay this long, and this rudely, who wasn’t here to collect money.”
Protectiveness, as unfamiliar as the possessiveness she stirs in me, rises in me, and I go with it. “I’ll handle it,” I say, heading back to the bedroom and onward toward the front of the house, my mind processing the implications of Faith’s embarrassment and circumstances. And I come to the obvious conclusion, which has nothing to do with my rapidly growing interest in this woman: no one with access to the funds my father wrote to her mother would put themselves through this with such genuine emotional response. If Faith was involved in whatever scam occurred, which I highly doubt, she doesn’t have the money now. And if she wanted to take the money and run, why put herself through this? Why not give the winery to the bank?