Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Paige doesn’t notice, though. The defects don’t seem to jump out at her. Maybe she doesn’t see them at all.
As we walk through the front door, I explain the layout. There’s a main corridor that runs the entire length of the house, leading from the front door to the back door. On the left-hand side, there’s a living room divided from the kitchen by a large island. Off the hallway on the right is a bedroom that I’m currently using as a study. The main bedroom is at the far end of the house on the right.
She heads to the living room first. It’s more modern in here. Wide-plank wood floors and an open-concept layout.
“I like that table.”
She’s pointing to the coffee table.
“Thanks, it came with the house, but I sanded it down and stained it with a lighter finish.”
“And the chair?”
“Thrifted.”
“I love the bright-blue fabric.”
I rub the back of my neck, somewhat self-conscious. “I had it reupholstered. The lady who did it picked that fabric out for me. If you saw the way I grew up, the house, I mean . . . you’d understand why I didn’t mind the color.”
“Is your parents’ house a bit boring?”
“Boring doesn’t do it justice.”
The kitchen is open and airy. There are no cabinets over the counters, just shelves with white plates and coffee mugs stacked in neat rows.
“Ah, here’s the Cole I know,” Paige teases, referring to the dishes. “Look at how perfect this all is.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” I reply defensively.
She shifts a mug an inch to the right and waits for my reaction. I mostly keep my eyes from twitching, but then she laughs and moves it back.
“I don’t mind it,” she promises. “Better that than living with a total slob.”
“Your dorm wasn’t messy.”
“No, I’m pretty clean, but I probably won’t live up to your exacting standards.”
“Maybe we’ll rub off on each other . . .”
She looks back at me over her shoulder, studying me for a moment with a shadow of a smile across her lips. “Maybe . . .”
Then her gaze trails to the large window at the back of the kitchen, the place where I sit in the mornings to drink my first cup of coffee. The sunrise from that perch is unreal. Hopefully I’ll get to show it to Paige.
“I can take you down to the beach if you want?”
She shakes her head.
“Want to see the front bedroom? The bathrooms?”
She shakes her head again and then turns back to face me.
“All right, I’ll see what I have for dinner. I keep a few staples around.”
Already, I’m heading toward the pantry, thinking of what I can cobble together—spaghetti, probably—but Paige shakes her head again.
I’m about to ask her what she wants, but then there’s no need.
The answer is so obvious.
She walks toward me, trembling with nerves. Once she reaches me, her hand touches mine, and she laces our fingers together. Then slowly, gently, she rises up on her tiptoes to kiss me. I let her take the lead, her soft lips only barely touching mine as she works up the courage to lean in more. Our chests brush and I feel her shiver, and then her mouth parts mine and our tongues mingle. It’s still so gentle it makes my chest ache with longing. It’s like we’ve never kissed before, not just each other, but anyone. We’re novices, scared and so preoccupied with every little movement.
She wants to impress me, seduce me, but there’s nothing she has to do for that. I reach my hand up to cup the back of her head, tangling my fingers in her blonde hair. The strands are luscious and soft. My palm rubs against a sensitive spot at the base of her head, and she arches against me.
The fire burning low seems to suddenly flare. I back her up toward the kitchen island before I’m aware we’re even moving. Her hips dig into it, and she moans. I lift her up, break our kiss for only a moment, reposition her head, and then kiss her again.
Everything we have to give is shared here, now.
I seem to be tearing at her, trying to burrow deeper, tongues lapping, lips clashing, teeth biting as we both plead for more.
Her arms wrap around my neck, and I hoist her up onto the counter. This new position works perfectly. My hips align with hers as I drag her right to the edge so that we can feel each other getting worked up.
Words are said and then forgotten.
More.
Cole.
Oh my god.
She’s wearing these shorts—these little tiny shorts—and I hike them up with my hands, smoothing my palms up her thighs, underneath the bunched fabric. The tips of my fingers skim the edge of her panties, and she bucks her hips, rubbing against me harder, feeding off that delicious friction.