Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
“Hey, you okay?”
I shoot a look across the kitchen, finding Cami in the doorway, her body concealed by that white T-shirt I just love. I AM NOT TO BE IGNORED.
I never knew how apt that statement would be. Her hair is a tangled mess atop her head, her eyes sleepy but still bright. And her legs—the most perfect legs I’ve ever seen. Her face, her presence, her voice. They realign my focus and kick me into gear. Standing from the table, I wander over and seize her aggressively, soaking up the startled yelp she sounds off. I can do this. For Cami, I can do anything.
“I’m just about fucking perfect,” I say, ravaging her neck, growling as I do.
She giggles, holding onto me as I recline her back in my arms, going to town, getting everything I can from her. I need it. “Jake!”
“How did you sleep?” I return her to vertical and make a fuss of straightening her out. I don’t need to. She’s flawless.
She frowns at me, a bit bemused. “Fine. You?”
“Perfectly,” I lie, taking her hand and leading her to the table. I push her down in the chair before tucking her in and rushing to the pan to take it off the heat. “I made you breakfast.”
“You did?”
“Yes. Eggs and bacon.” I throw the eggs in a clean pan and grab some plates.
“But I’m—”
I swing around and wave a wooden spoon at her, shutting her up before she goes on to tell me that she’s not up for breakfast beyond spinach. “You’re not leaving the table until it’s gone.”
She recoils, her head tilting in amusement. “Like I’m a child?”
“No,” I counter quickly, stirring up the eggs. “Like you’re a woman with healthy eating habits.” So there.
“Right,” she says from behind me. I can picture her face. It’ll be affronted. She can argue all she likes. She’s eating this breakfast.
I stir the eggs and get the toast from the toaster. “And guess what?”
“What?”
I turn and slap the toast on the chopping board, grabbing a knife. She watches me with interest. “You get real butter.” I hold up the slab of pure fat and grin like an idiot.
“I prefer dry toast.” She gets up and wanders over to the cupboard, pulling a mug down blindly, keeping scornful eyes on me.
“No you don’t. Your agent prefers dry toast.” I scoop a huge helping from the tub and hold it up for her to see. Her eyes narrow, and I grin some more. “Yum.” I lick my lips and then slap it on the toast, smearing it liberally.
“It’s my job, Jake,” she sighs, turning toward the kettle. “You don’t see me taking bullets out of your gun.”
I consider what she’s said…for a second. “It’s my job to make sure you eat decently.”
“That’s not decent. It’s a heart attack on a plate.”
“Doesn’t hurt once in a while.” I serve it all up and slide it onto the table, then sit and wait for her to finish making the tea.
I’m hungry. I could dive into my breakfast, but watching her putter around my kitchen is far more fulfilling. I sit back in my chair and get comfy, studying her every movement. She reaches up on tippy-toes to get the teapot from the top shelf, making her T-shirt ride up to her pert arse as she does. I smile, and she starts to hum, jiggling her shoulders as she moves around my kitchen, oblivious to the observation she’s under. She opens the door to the fridge and bends to get the milk, and then she’s reaching across the counter to open the drawer and grab a spoon.
She’s sex on legs, and she isn’t even trying. My arms come up across my chest, my arse slipping down the seat a little as I relax. The smile on my face is glued into position. Always will be if I get the pleasure of this every day. Compelled to touch her, I get up from my chair and walk silently over to her as she waits for the kettle to boil. Her hands are resting on the counter, her fingers strumming as she continues to hum. I’m keeping her forever. Resolution courses through me like an elucidating lightning bolt. Everything falls into perfect place.
I’m as close to her as I can be without touching her, virtually breathing down her neck. “Angel.”
Her humming stops and she stills before me.
“Turn around.”
She holds her unmoving position for a few seconds, the kettle bubbling in front of her.
And the moment it clicks off, she slowly turns to me, her profile coming into perfect view, her eyes round and unsure as she searches me out. She holds onto the counter for as long as her turning body will allow, finally releasing it and facing me.
She looks down at me.
Down at me?
I’m six foot four inches fucking tall. How is she looking down at me?