Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 155203 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 776(@200wpm)___ 621(@250wpm)___ 517(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 155203 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 776(@200wpm)___ 621(@250wpm)___ 517(@300wpm)
Eyebrows soaring, I gaze past his shoulder and glimpse a naked Beckett and an equally naked blond sprawled on Beck’s bed.
Will follows my gaze and speaks in a soft, sheepish voice. “It was…kind of a night.”
“Yeah, I see that,” I say dryly.
It’s none of my damned business, so I slip back into my bedroom, where Gigi is stirring.
I climb into bed and plant a kiss on her nose. She gives a sleepy laugh when I try to kiss her lips and squirms away from me.
“No kissing,” she protests. “You just brushed your teeth. I still have morning breath.”
“Fine. I’ll kiss you other places.” I bury my face in her neck and breathe in her sweet, feminine scent. It gets my blood going. Everything about her is so stupidly sexy. I want her all the time.
“What are your plans today?” she asks, pushing me onto my back so she can snuggle up beside me.
“I was planning on spending the whole day in bed with you.”
“Sounds like an excellent plan, but I have to drive into the city today. Doing some last-minute Christmas shopping. Do you want to come?”
“Oh boy. You want me to come shopping with you? Will you dump me if I say no?”
She snickers. “No. But don’t you have to buy Christmas presents?”
I think it over. “No.”
“Wait, do you celebrate Christmas?”
“I did growing up, and most of the foster homes I lived in did stuff for the holidays. But it depends on the year, I guess, and whether I have anywhere to go. Last year I was with Owen and his family in Phoenix.”
“What are you doing this year?”
“Staying here.”
“Alone?” She’s aghast.
“Yeah. Shane asked me to go home with him, and Beckett’s fucking off to Australia for two weeks. Tried to get me to go too. But I’m not feeling either of those invitations.”
She hesitates for a moment. “What about this invitation—do you want to come home with me?”
“Home,” I echo.
“Yes.”
“With your parents.”
“Yep, that’s what home means.”
“Will your father be there?”
“He lives there, so yes.”
“Your father, Garrett Graham.”
“Okay, you know what? I revoke the invitation.”
I sit up, thinking it over for a minute. “Do they even know we’re together?”
“No, but I’ll make sure to tell them before I bring you home. If you want to come, that is.” Gigi sits up too, running a hand through her sleep-mussed hair. “For what it’s worth, I think you should. You’ll have a full week to make him like you…” She trails off enticingly. “Plus, my mom is a great cook, and she and my brother can harmonize on every Christmas carol ever written, so it makes for some awesome singalongs. Oh, and I forgot the best part: the Boxing Day Beatdown.”
“What’s that?” I ask in amusement.
Rather than answer, she lifts her T-shirt by the hem and pulls it off.
My mouth waters the moment her breasts are exposed.
“What’s happening right now?” I croak.
“Are you ready? I’m going to try something.”
“I like this already.” My gaze is glued to her beaded nipples.
“You like this, right?” she prompts, cupping those perfect tits.
My dick twitches. “Yes.”
“How hard are you, percent-wise?”
“Right now?” I reach down and cup my semihardening cock. “Forty percent?” I estimate.
“All right, are you ready for this? The Boxing Day Beatdown. TD Garden. Private ice time.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “Garrett Graham.” Another pause. “John Logan.”
I swallow.
She doesn’t miss the response, faintly smirking at me.
“Hunter Davenport.”
My dick twitches again.
“Jake Connelly.”
“Oh my God, stop,” I groan. “Are you saying you spend Boxing Day skating with all those guys?”
“Oh yeah. It’s a tradition. All the kids play too. We pick captains. It gets intense.” She gazes south. “What’s the percentage now?”
I squeeze my cock. Appraising it. “Eighty percent.”
She breaks out in gales of laughter. Then she shucks her tiny boxer shorts and bright-red panties and climbs on top of me, tits swaying.
“Wait. I left out the best part.” She beams down at me. “Gigi Graham.”
“One hundred percent,” I growl, and then I lift her ass up and guide her down onto my rock-hard dick.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
RYDER
You can call me Mr. Graham
THE GRAHAM HOUSE LOOKS LIKE SOMETHING OUT OF A HALLMARK movie. It’s a sprawling brick colonial in an affluent neighborhood, set far back from the tree-lined street, with a four-car garage and pillared entrance. Inside, the front entryway is intimidating, but once I venture deeper into the house, I realize it’s actually cozy in here. The furniture isn’t modern and sterile, but warm and lived in, and the décor is mostly family photographs and framed achievements.
“Have you always lived here?” I ask after Gigi gives me the tour.
It’s Christmas Eve and we got here about an hour ago. We’re the only ones in the house right now; her folks stepped out to grab something from the store, and Wyatt hasn’t arrived yet. His flight from Nashville doesn’t get in till the afternoon, according to Gigi.