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)
I haven’t seen her since last Sunday. It’s been nearly a week. I thought about her more than I’d expected while I was out of town. I’m still thinking of her. I’m not sure that’s going to stop.
I’m not sure I want it to stop.
I click open the messages, sliding my thumb over the screen, weighing my choices. I’ll be in the same space as her very, very soon. What’s that going to be like? But I know what I want it to be like. If one fuck Karlsson text thrills me this much, I’m pretty sure I made my choice. I send her a text with no guilt, no second-guessing.
Wesley: Can’t get those photos out of my mind.
It’s Saturday night. No idea what she’s up to. But she responds in ten minutes.
Josie: Maybe this will help get them out of your mind.
My phone says an image is loading. My pulse roars. Excitement pings through my every cell. Furtively, I scan the plane. It’s dark and quiet, but I angle the phone even more, so no one can see it. I’m not the first guy on my team who’s angled his phone. I won’t be the last.
My mouth waters as I click it open. I push my fist against my mouth and bite my knuckle so I don’t groan in pleasure.
The shot is artful and dripping with desire all at once. It’s like a slice of life and a moment of lust somehow combined. Looks like she’s on the back deck of my house, with a glass of wine sitting on the wooden table at the edge of the shot. There’s a charcuterie board on the table too, with some grapes and fruit on it. But that’s not where my gaze goes. The forefront of the shot is her hand on the side of her chest, looped around a black lacy bra strap. She’s tugging it slightly away from her skin—skin I want to lick and kiss.
Is that…new? The bra?
No idea, but the possibility that she bought a new piece of lingerie turns me into a furnace. I can’t hold back.
Wesley: Is that new?
Josie: The charcuterie board? No, it’s yours, Wes.
Even though she sent a text, I can hear my name said on her mouth. Can feel the vibration of the letters as she says them in a tease. All I want is to speed up time.
Wesley: Don’t take it off yet.
Too bad I have two fucking hours left.
Two hours to think.
Two hours to consider.
Two hours to debate.
But really, was there ever any debate at all? Or, to put it more accurately, I spent the last six weeks debating. The debate is over now.
When we land, I’m off the plane before anyone else. Turning on my car in no time, racing home through the streets of San Francisco at a record pace, then pulling into the garage and getting out of my car right as the garage door closes behind me.
I don’t waste a second.
I leave my duffel on the floor and head up the stairs, not even bothering to toe off my shoes.
If she’s asleep, I want her to hear me. I want her to wake up. I want to make it worth her while.
I scan the living room. No sign of Josie. I walk into the kitchen. It’s quiet and clean. I stop at the sink, quickly wash my hands, then I march to her bedroom, ready to rip down the door. But it’s wide open and when I peer inside, she’s not there.
I need to see her right now.
I stride to the back deck, a man on a mission. At the glass door, my heart stops, stutters. She’s curled up in a deck chair, a blanket around her, reading a book under the soft floodlights, the glass of wine empty, her gaze steady on the e-reader.
The heat lamp is on. I slide open the door.
She looks up, parts her lips, roams her eyes up and down me. “Hey, you.”
I’m wearing a suit, no tie. She takes me in for a beat, but before she can say another word, I close the distance to her. Lean in. Set a hand on the back of the chair next to her face. Hold her heated gaze.
“Now,” I say. “Take it off, now.”
29
I GET NO RESPECT
Josie
I’ve lived in my head for so long. I’ve studied the world down to the last detail, arming myself with information and insight for any situation. But there’s no book to prepare me for this experience.
For his demand.
But I don’t need one, it turns out. My body knows what it wants when Wes tells me to strip for him.
On the back deck, with a cocktail of heat lamp and cool November air kissing my skin, I drop the blanket, set down my e-reader on the table, and reach for the zipper of my maroon hoodie, like I’m mesmerized by his order. Eager to follow it. I don’t need to research how to undress for your sexy roomie that you’re a little caught up with.