Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 94489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
"You love brunch," he says.
"Yeah. But everyone else is wearing a suit ironically! Because the place is called Church. Sunday best."
He stares blankly at her.
She shakes her head sad, he just doesn't get it.
"What does he wear?" I ask.
"You don't like the suit. Ah"—she presses her hands together—"now, we're getting somewhere."
He looks to me and raises a brow is that right?
"I like it," I say. "I prefer him out of it, but I like it."
Opal squeals, somehow finding my obsession with sex charming instead of annoying.
Maybe it's only annoying when it's a lecture from an older person.
She's funny.
And I…
Well, I can't really claim I'm not consumed with thoughts of touching Simon.
Still. She's his sister. I'm not about to talk about how badly I want to feel his cock inside me.
"Does he own jeans?" I ask.
"Oh yeah, jeans, no shirt, no shoes." She looks at Simon. Realizes she's describing her brother. Scrunches her nose. "A good look, in theory."
"Where are you forming these opinions?" he asks.
"Newsflash. Your generation didn't invent attraction," she says.
"I'd like to see you in only jeans," I say.
She shakes her head not going to happen.
"You don't own jeans?" I ask.
"Oh, he does. Christmas present three years in a row. All with original tags attached," she says.
"You don't like them?" I ask.
"They're stiff," he says.
"Isn't that thing uncomfortable?" she asks.
"I'm used to it," he says.
"What does he wear on his days off?" I ask.
She shakes her head. "I'd tell you, but I don't think it's going to help his case. And I'm not a c-blocker."
He raises a brow.
"Equal opportunity," she says.
"Those are Liam's exact words," he says.
"And if Liam were here, he'd tell you to get the fuck on it. He's wise sometimes," she says.
"That's horrifying," he says.
"Yeah. But it's true." She looks at the whipped cream canister, shakes her head, turns to the hallway. "I am going to shower. After that, I'll be in my room, with the fan on. It muffles sound pretty well but don't make it a goal to test it." She walks toward her room with a wave. "Good night, Simon. Nice to see you again, Vanessa. I hope I'll see you in the morning."
"Good night," I say to her.
He waits until she's in her room, then he looks to me. "Is she right?"
"Your lack of game? Or the whipped cream?"
"The whipped cream, of course," he says.
"Absolutely. I only have sex on Spider-man sheets."
"That's how you decorate your room."
I stand and nod. "And I judge. Based on their ability to open a bottle of champagne."
"Reasonable."
My lips curl into a smile. "You never wear jeans?"
"She's exaggerating."
"What do you wear on Saturdays?"
"You'll see tomorrow."
If I stay all night. All morning. Through breakfast and coffee and whatever else they do all day.
I want to be there.
To see his love.
But that's terrifying.
This—
This makes sense.
This is pure.
"We can keep talking," he says. "Or sit here quietly. We don't have to—"
"I want to. If you do."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
He hesitates. He's worried about what I've said. What it means.
"We can talk tomorrow."
He nods.
"Tonight, I want this. Please."
His pupils dilate. "Tonight."
I move around the couch. "Are the walls thick?"
"I'll put on music."
"What kind?"
"A surprise."
"You won't tell me?" I ask.
"No. And I won't tell you what's waiting for you in my bed, gift wrapped, either."
Chapter Thirty
VANESSA
The space is all Simon.
Wide windows. Dark curtains. A leather armchair next to a mahogany end table.
His private space.
He's inviting me into it.
He's changing his space for me.
I want to consume every inch of it.
Every inch of him.
He points me to the white gift box on the grey sheets.
A present.
But it's not as exciting as the mirrors. They're everywhere.
So I can watch.
So we can both watch.
He catches me staring. "They're new."
For me. "What did you have before?"
"Something smaller." He motions to a mirror in the corner. "In case you need a reflection of a reflection."
Fuck.
He wraps his arms around my waist. Presses his lips to my neck. "Or something on the ceiling."
"You don't."
"Do I?"
No. He wouldn't.
Would he?
I check, just to be sure.
Simon smiles. "I can put one in."
"No."
"No?"
"Maybe."
"Maybe." He presses his lips to my neck. Points me to the gift box sitting on the bed. "Do you want to open it?"
"I do."
He releases me.
I move to the bed. Find the card tucked into the red ribbon.
A rectangle of cardstock in a white envelope, with a simple, cheeky message:
My pleasure.
- Simon
A response to my note, thanking him for his hospitality.
My lips curl into a smile.
This is perfect.
Easy, sweet, sexy.
I want it.
And the rest too.
I really like him.
Maybe even more. Maybe even the word that terrifies me.
I drop the card. Unwrap the gift.
Find purple lingerie sitting on wine tissue paper.
A plum bra and panty set and a long robe.
"The color suits you," he says. "It's regal. Intense. Sexy."
I pick up the robe. Study the way the soft light reflects the sheen.