Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Because three inches from him to me doesn’t feel close enough. God, even zero inches is far too little. I desire him closer, deep in the epicenter of my soul, and it’s absolutely…
Petrifying.
“Janie,” Maximoff says. “You look flushed.”
Oh no.
I’m wide-eyed on my boyfriend.
“She’s okay,” Thatcher assures my best friend. “We have this handled.”
I perch my hands on my hips and take a more confident breath. “Yes, we do.”
“Alright.” Maximoff trusts us, and he smiles at me and leans in close to whisper, “Have fun with your boyfriend.”
I smile brighter. “I will. You have fun with your fiancé.”
He grimaces, crinkling his nose. “I won’t.”
I laugh. Maximoff looks lovesick and Farrow isn’t even in the kitchen.
He stops at the doorway before he leaves. “How are we on groceries?” He gestures to the fridge, tapping into his survival-mode.
“Stocked up for about two days. We’ll have to go to the store again.” The nearest market is about an hour drive from Mackintosh House, so it’ll be a trek.
“Moffy! Where’s my duffel bag?!” Luna calls from upstairs. Maximoff excuses himself to go help his sister.
Thatcher faces me. “What you were asking before.” He speaks vaguely, but I remember. Sex. “We’ll work it out.”
My brows jump. “So it’s going to happen?” I raise my hands. “Just for clarification. Because it’s important that it does happen—I want it to happen, I mean.” I’m word vomiting, and I stop as Donnelly strolls into the kitchen.
He carries two woolen tartan blankets, plaid with a red base and deep green lines. “Want what to happen?” he asks us.
“Nothing,” I say. “Absolutely nothing to happen. It was a figure of speech.”
Donnelly frowns. “Really? ‘Cause I thought you were talking about sex.” He walks off ever so casually like he didn’t just explode a miniature bomb at my feet.
Thatcher shakes his head, watching him leave. He mumbles an Italian word under his breath and glances back to me. “For clarification,” he tells me. “It’s going to happen.” He reaches an arm closer to me, and I breathe in sharp.
Our eyes lock as he switches off the burner, his fingers brushing against my elbow. I’m still warm, and his body emits rolling waves of heat. I think he might lean closer.
I think he might whisper something dirtier like, my cock in your pussy.
His gaze consumes mine and holds me and hoists me and pushes up against me—but we aren’t touching. We aren’t speaking.
I ache and ache, soaked and ready for him. I swallow, cross my ankles, and I lean further away from my boyfriend.
He notices and nods like I’m doing well. This is the plan. But as he departs for the pantry, his body heat is replaced with a sudden biting cold.
18
THATCHER MORETTI
Being iced out by Akara Kitsuwon feels like subzero winds barreling down on exposed flesh. It’s different than the silent treatment that Jane delivered last summer. This one is layered with baggage and un-mendable things.
And pretending to be Banks—it has major downsides. Namely, I can’t sleep in Jane’s bedroom, and since my brother has no bad blood with Akara, room assignments played out like the invention of a new circle of hell.
My flaming hellscape consists of ugly burgundy wallpaper and two brass twin beds assigned to me and Akara.
I close the door, shutting out voices downstairs.
Akara drops his duffel on the floorboards. He wears a baseball cap backwards and unzips his red winter jacket. I watch him shift aside the heavy, floral drapes. He assesses the window.
Security has already swept every inch of this house, but double-checking gives him an excuse to turn his back to me.
You’d need a fucking jackhammer to dent the tension in this room. I’m the world’s worst at apologizing. I should unlace my boots and place them against the nightstand.
I should rack out and give him space.
But fuck it all. I’m tired of shutting up when I crave skin-and-fucking-bones to make amends.
Akara spends an extra long minute running his fingers down the window’s seal.
“We’re going to have to talk at some point.” My voice sounds too loud in the quiet.
He goes still. “We probably shouldn’t make that point today.”
My muscles tense. “You need to get something off your chest? I can handle it.” I’d much rather him just ream me the fuck out. I’m used to superiors spit-yelling at me. I’m used to shackling on the blame, but I can’t do that until he gives me the weight.
Akara turns around finally and leans back against the windowsill. He crosses his arms over his chest, and his expression is one of profound discontent. “Like I said, you don’t want to do this today.”
“What if I do?” Just yell at me, goddammit.
He shrugs. “It’s your funeral.”
I nod, ready for it.
Akara takes a breath and sizes me up. “Normally, I’d love this twin swap. Pulling one over on Epsilon—classic.” His eyes land on mine in a glare. “But I honestly hate this whole thing because I could have had a week without you. Joke is on me, per fucking usual.”