Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 27438 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27438 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
He’s leaving.
“The Cubs are winning,” he calls from the other room. I grab our plates and join him, sitting a few feet away, and reach for a slice of pizza.
“O’Shaughnessy has been badass this year.”
“He’s badass every year,” I reply around a bite of food, and then laugh when he frowns at me. “What? It’s true.”
“Hmm.” He swigs his beer, and we fall into a comfortable silence, eating and watching baseball. “Oh, come on! You should have caught that!”
“You always did get riled up watching baseball.”
He smiles at me, then wipes his mouth with a napkin. “There’s no other way to watch it. God, you weren’t kidding. It’s damn hot in here.”
“I know, I’m sorry. We could go somewhere else to watch the game.”
“No, I like having you to myself,” he replies, surprising me. “I’ll just take my shirt off.”
Before I can find enough brain cells to form a sentence, he whips his shirt over his head and tosses it onto the couch.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Times a million.
I blink rapidly, trying not to stare at the tanned, toned, muscley goodness that is Brody Chabot, but it’s impossible.
He’s like the most glorious work of art in the world, and I’d challenge anyone to be able to look away.
His arms, his abs, his freaking shoulders, flex as he moves to grab another slice of pizza. How he can eat while all of my synapses are exploding one by one is beyond me.
I think I just lost all bodily function.
And I haven’t even seen him all the way naked. This is just the upper half.
I bite my lip and take a sip of my beer, trying to distract myself.
If I thought it was hot in here before, it’s officially lava-level now that Brody’s taken off his shirt.
And I’m a puddle of melted goo.
The Cubs hit a homerun, and Brody thrusts his fists in the air, whooping in happiness. I smile at him, and then roll my tank top up my stomach and tuck it into the band of my bra.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “Boob sweat is a thing, and it’s damn uncomfortable.” I sigh as my shirt soaks up some of the moisture and relieves me from the horrible stickiness.
But I come up short when I glance at Brody and find him with his beer halfway to his lips, and his eyes pinned to my flat stomach.
Interesting. I’m not the only one attracted.
Thank God.
No, this is bad. Bad! He’s leaving soon.
However, my body gives zero shits about Brody’s travel plans as his eyes rake up and down my scantily-clad body, and he swallows hard.
“Fuck,” he whispers, setting his beer and plate aside. He moves over to me, unapologetically crawling over me, until I have no option but to lie flat on my back and stare up at him, both of us breathing hard, heat coming off of us in waves, and it has nothing to do with the temperature outside. “I’ve been keeping my hands off of you for days, when all I want to do is touch you.”
“I’m not saying no,” I reply softly, reaching up to brush my fingertips over his mouth. He pokes his tongue out, wetting his lips and my fingers, and the next thing I know, he lowers his face to mine and slides that mouth over my lips, starting slow and then sinking right into me.
Oh my God. I was right. He’s an Olympic-level kisser. His lips are sure and skilled, sliding back and forth. He uses his tongue sparingly, just teasing me with it rather than jamming it down my throat.
That is the only point of contact between us, and I yearn for more. I want to feel the weight of him on me. I need to feel his skin.
With one hand on his forearm by my head, I glide my other palm down his toned back and slip it between his shorts and ass, squeezing in delight.
Holy hell, he’s just hard everywhere.
And when he leans his hips in to rest in the cradle of my thighs, I notice that that’s not all that’s hard.
I moan against his mouth as he moves one hand down my sternum to my belly, pressing on my bare skin.
I want Brody Chabot more than I’ve ever wanted anyone in my life.
“My God, you’d tempt a saint,” he whispers as his talented mouth moves along my jawline to my neck. He nibbles the sensitive skin there, giving me system-wide goose bumps. “And I’ve never claimed to be a saint.”
“Good.”
I feel him grin against me and his fingers slip lower on my belly, headed under my shorts to the promised land just as there’s a knock on my front door.
We both freeze, our eyes pinned to each other.
“Ignore it,” I whisper. “They’ll go away.”
“Your door is open,” he whispers back.
“Doesn’t matter. They’ll go away.”