Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
On the way home, she pulls a tube of lipstick from her little bag and slides it across her lips as I drive along our block. I steal a glance at her as she presses them together. They’re pink and shiny now, and I’m fucking aroused.
Great. Just great.
When I pull into the garage, I make up some excuse about checking a group chat with the guys. “I’ll be inside in a second,” I say.
She goes ahead, and when my dick settles down a minute later, I follow. She’s on the couch already, waving the list. It’s not like I want to be anywhere else but near her, so I join her. She grabs one of her pens and crosses off item number two, but only half of it. “We both did this tonight,” she says, giving me the pen so I can finish the strike-through.
“We did,” I say, seconding her as I draw the rest of the line.
Together, we look at the list of ten items with three completed so far.
Have a one-night stand with a sexy stranger.
Overcome a fear (take a class you can’t prepare for, baby! Psst—improv class time!)
Make a friend who’s nothing like you. You learn the most from them.
When I give the pen back to her, she taps the fourth thing on the list. “Are you ready for number four?”
I shudder at the thought. It’s a simple item, but a terrifying one too. I draw a soldiering breath. “I’d better be.”
“We can do it next weekend. You have a game tomorrow and also on Sunday, so I’m guessing next weekend is better. Sunday morning?”
A surge of happiness floods me from this detail—she knows my game schedule. But then, I try not to read too much into it. We live together. It’s just good sense to know your roomie’s sked. Strategic too.
“Next Sunday works,” I say.
“Good. We can plan this week.”
“Of course,” I say, amused at how thoroughly she does homework for everything in her life.
She caps the pen, looks at the clock on the wall with a wistful gaze, then says, “I should go to bed. I have an early meeting then I’m working late at the library tomorrow.”
She pushes up from the couch, but pauses, like she wants to say something else. Or maybe do something else. “Wesley,” she begins in a voice full of promise.
My chest seizes with a feral sort of want. A hunger rises inside me, climbing up my body. “Yes?” I ask hoarsely.
“I never showed you the video of the pigeons.”
A laugh bursts from me. “Do you want to show me pigeon porn?”
“It’s worth your while,” she says, a teasing lilt to her tone.
I pat the couch and she returns, sinking back down onto the gray cushion. This time, she’s a couple inches closer to me. This time, I catch her scent—the fading notes of cinnamon, twined with vanilla. Her hair, I think. The combo scrambles my brain, and it takes every ounce of my willpower not to tug on her hair, dip my face to her neck, inhale her.
Especially when she leans closer, clicks on the folder on her phone, and scoots another inch nearer. We dip our heads toward the screen, but I’m acutely aware of how close she is as she shows me a video of birds banging.
“It’s…not what I expected,” I say when it’s over. But then again, she’s not either.
“I know, right?” Then she pulls back to meet my eyes once more in the near dark. “You’re not either.”
And tonight, I decide that’s a good thing. “Same to you,” I say, then narrow in on her glasses. They’re a little smudged. Probably from the day. She doesn’t need me to do this, but I do it anyway. “Your glasses,” I say, then reach carefully for them. “They’re dirty.”
“Oh,” she says, raising her chin toward me, a subtle way of giving me permission. Carefully, I hold the delicate arms and slide them off her face.
Her breath hitches. She swallows noticeably as I bring them to my mouth, and blow on them. Lifting the hem of my shirt, I gently rub the lenses, cleaning them. Her gaze drifts down to my stomach, visible now.
Did I do that on purpose? Maybe. She likes to look, and I like the attention. A lot.
I take a good long time cleaning her glasses. When I’m done, she shudders in a breath. Then holds in another one as I glide them slowly, carefully back on her face.
We stay like that, inches apart in the almost dark, neither of us moving for several stretched-out seconds.
Till she says, “Thanks. They’re all better now.”
“Good.”
This time, she leaves, heading off to her room under the staircase while I go the other way, trying not to think of her as I get ready for bed.
No such luck. She’s exactly what I think of after I shut the door, change, and slide between the sheets. She’s precisely what’s on my mind as I turn off the lights and deal with all this lust for my roomie that’s starting to feel like a little more than lust.