Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
But as soon as I’ve washed my hands, fetched Sydney water, and rejoined her in bed, I’m already sporting a semi again.
All it takes is a brush of her fingers over my cock as she whispers, “I can’t decide if I like on top or behind better. Maybe you can remind me what behind feels like?” and I’m rock hard and ready to go.
I stay that way most of the night, until we fall asleep sometime around two in the morning, tangled up together and exhausted in the best way possible.
I wake up feeling better than I have since the last time I spent the night with this woman.
Memories of how that morning played out, complete with the best morning sex of my life, makes me roll over, reaching for Sydney, but the sheets on the other side of the bed are cool.
I sit up, glancing around the large master bedroom, but there’s no sign of her and the door to the master bath is open, so I can hear that she’s not in there grabbing a shower.
Maybe she decided to go looking for food or coffee. Coffee, I have plenty of, but the food options are limited. But I can order us something delivered. There’s a fabulous French place on Fifth Avenue that delivers brunch until two p.m.
That’s one thing I’ll never stop missing about the city, the food quality and selection are unparalleled. Burlington has a few nice places, but nothing like New York City.
I slide out of bed, pulling on linen pajama pants over my boxer briefs but deciding to skip the t-shirt. It’s still warm for September and a part of me is hoping I’ll be able to tempt Sydney back to bed before we eat.
Pushing aside the voice in my head trying to remind me that we said one night and it’s already morning, I head into the kitchen to find Sydney sitting cross-legged on one of the stools at the island, the morning paper spread out on the counter in front of her. She’s wearing my blue t-shirt and nothing else, exposing nearly every inch of her long, toned legs.
“You found the paper, I see.” I cross to her, planning to skim my fingers up her thigh and discover if she decided panties were worth the trouble. But when she turns to me, her face is pale, and I freeze. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Why do you have the paper delivered?” she asks, her voice strained. “No one gets the real paper anymore! We read it on our phones or in an app. And you don’t even live here full time.”
“I only get it on weekends when I’m in town. My assistant arranges it,” I say, glancing down at the pages, but not seeing anything particularly terrifying in the headlines. But with the world these days, you never can tell. There’s always something horrible unfolding in the news cycle. “Why? What’s happened?”
She pulls in a shallow breath, shaking her head. “I’m an idiot, that’s what happened. But in my defense, no one in the press seemed interested that I was back in the city.” She drags a clawed hand through her wavy hair. “But that’s probably because all I was doing was going to work and taking my work home with me and waking up in the middle of the night to work some more when the stress of not working got to be too much. I wasn’t out on the town in a boob dress.”
Still not understanding what she’s upset about, but feeling compelled to defend her dress, I say, “It’s not a boob dress. It’s a leg dress. And you were beautiful in it.”
“Thank you.” She sighs. “But it’s definitely a boob dress in pictures. If my father sees this, he’s going to flip out. I’m supposed to be proving I’m mature enough to take over the company, not bouncing my bimbo boobs all over the city.”
She pushes a picture-heavy section of the paper my way. The society section, I realize. Instantly, my gaze goes to the dazzling strawberry blonde in black with her hand propped on one hip. She’s looking over her shoulder, laughing, while the man with his arm wrapped around her waist gazes at her profile adoringly. And yes, a good amount of her right breast is showing, but she looks classy and confident. There’s nothing bimbo-ish about her.
It’s a beautiful shot of Sydney…and my son.
His name is right there in black and white in the caption—Adrian Weathersfield (he uses my ex’s last name) and Sydney Perry-Watson.
“Perry-Watson?” I blurt out, my gaze jerking up from the page. “You’re a Perry-Watson?”
She blinks and a sheepish look creeps across her face. “Yes. I thought I told you.”
“You said Watson, not Perry-Watson.”
“Are you sure?” she squeaks in a way that makes me think the omission was deliberate.