Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 140184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 701(@200wpm)___ 561(@250wpm)___ 467(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 701(@200wpm)___ 561(@250wpm)___ 467(@300wpm)
Jet looks over at me, alert. “Are they not good? They’re usually really good.”
“Oh my god,” I repeat, before greedily taking another bite.
Jet’s smile widens. Seeing there’s no cause for concern, he moves a couple of skewers to his own plate. “I guess they’re really good.”
My empty stomach tempts me to make a pig of myself and grab every skewer on the plate, but I resist the urge and settle with grabbing three.
Milo walks in just as Jet is walking out. I’m just polishing off the first skewer I tried in the kitchen.
Milo grabs his plate and leans in toward me as he fills it. “I see you’re enjoying my meat.”
I’m so startled by the scandalous comment and the smirk on his devilishly handsome face, I nearly choke. The food goes down the wrong way, so I move quickly to grab a cup out of the cupboard and hit the water dispenser on their fancy-ass refrigerator.
I gulp some down and turn around, glaring at Milo. “Are you trying to kill me?”
Still smirking, he says, “What? You don’t enjoy choking on it like a good little slut? I’m surprised.”
I shake my head and grab my abandoned plate off the island. “You’re the worst.”
“Maybe you just need more practice,” he calls as I leave the kitchen and go to join Jet in the living room.
Jet looks up as I sink into the couch cushion beside him, still faintly shaking my head.
“Is my dad picking on you?” he asks as he reaches for a handful of popcorn.
“When isn’t he?” I mutter. My entire face feels warm, so I take a long sip of cold water to try to cool myself down a bit.
The worst part is, I’m not sure if I’m burning with embarrassment, annoyance, or something far less palatable.
Choke on it like a good little slut.
That fucking man, I swear.
But also I shift in my seat, trying not to recall memories of being locked in the bathroom with him the other day.
Since Jet is in the room with us, Milo behaves himself while we watch the movie. I haven’t seen this one before, but Jet’s right, it is funny.
After I polish off the last of my tasty meat skewers and shift my focus to munching on popcorn, Jet decides it’s time for a photo op. I let him do his thing while I watch the movie, but I feel Milo’s gaze on us as Jet grabs a fluffy blanket and wraps it around both of us. I move when he directs me to, and the end result is that we are snuggled up on the couch together with our legs underneath the blanket.
“What exactly are you two doing over there?” he asks when he also realizes that.
I snuggle into Jet’s side and lay my head on his shoulder. “Nothing, Mr. Granville,” I say innocently.
Milo’s eyes narrow to slits.
Jet is preoccupied setting up his photo shoot and shifts his camera so it’s at the right angle. He snaps a shot while I have my head leaning on his shoulder, then says, “Grab a piece of popcorn and pop it into my mouth like we’re being flirty and playful while we watch the movie.”
“Bossy,” I joke, but I grab a piece of popcorn, anyway.
Milo’s gaze sears me as I bring the piece of popcorn to his son’s mouth. I can practically feel the heat radiating off him from across the room, but I avoid looking at him so I can pretend not to notice.
I push the piece of popcorn between Jet’s lips with a fond little smile gracing mine.
He snaps the picture, then lowers the phone so he can flip through the ones he just took. “These are perfect,” he says happily. “I’ll post both poses.”
I don’t care, but I nod in polite agreement and reach for more popcorn as I shift my gaze back to the big screen TV. Before I can get any, the bowl is ripped from my hand, then the blanket is yanked off me and Jet.
I stare, wide-eyed, at Milo as he looms over me.
Jet looks up too, more confused than I am, but also distracted posting the pictures to social media.
“This is too much privacy for two teenagers,” he states, tossing the blanket to the other side of the couch and handing back the popcorn.
I meet his gaze, mine a little challenging. “What exactly do you think we’re going to do under that blanket, Mr. Granville?”
“Stop calling me that,” he bites out, gazing down at me with a hard, steely look that turns my stomach upside down.
In my mind, I can envision how he would respond if we were alone. I picture him grabbing my throat and pushing me back against a wall. His already firm grip tightening as he leans in, and I don’t know if my dimming vision is from his hold on my throat, or the intoxicatingly masculine scent of him, but I can’t think straight or breathe properly, and then his lips touch my face and I’m gone.