Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 84394 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84394 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
“I walked right into a wall tonight,” I say lightly, hamming up my wince as I rub my shoulder again. “Does that count?”
A short blast of amusement escapes his throat and his lips curve in gratitude and relief. “It counts. A wall, huh? And you walked into it? Not the other way around?”
“Well, I do run into things a lot. I’m always staring down at my phone.”
“Ha. I—” His phone chirps and the scowl is back in an instant. “Shit.”
He turns his back and stares down at his phone without another word.
That was our moment.
Our eyes didn’t lock. Time didn’t stand still. He didn’t throw me over his shoulder for a good ravishing, which is a damn shame because that’s always been on my bucket list. And it all happened so fast I’m left more with impressions than details. A strong, shadowed jawline, a deeply dimpled chin and green eyes that momentarily brightened to emerald with laughter.
I’m not the one he was waiting for.
Which is fine, I tell myself firmly, even after getting my first look at the most magnificent ass ever created.
I hated his version of Superman anyway.
“Mr. Redmond?”
I glance away from the ass of my dreams and do a double take. Standing beside me is the most interesting man in the world. No. Not that one. This one has silver-hair and is dressed in a classy marching band uniform, with a pair of blinged-out glasses perched on the edge of his nose. Look out, Elton John.
“Mr. Gordon?” This has to be the concierge who’s in charge of everything from maintenance and security to mood swings and local gossip. Based on our email exchanges, I’ve gathered he’s the ultimate guardian at the gate, and one of only a small handful who know how to contact the owner of the building in case of emergencies.
I’d be smart to stay on his good side.
Without acknowledging the brooding elephant in the lobby, he holds out my welcome basket. As if anything could top the Butt that was Promised. As if I were a child that could be easily distracted by—“Are those kumquats?”
“Yes, sir.” He hands the basket over and my stomach growls, the sound embarrassingly loud in the now silent lobby. I might have missed a few meals today, and I only remember that fact when I see the caramels, fresh chocolate chip muffins, kumquats, figs, kiwis and a bundle of baby bananas in this basket made of magic.
Tiny fruits are a weakness of mine, and not only because they make my hands look bigger. The question is, how does he know that about me? Is Mr. Gordon a psychic? A wizard? A spy?
“Mr. Redmond, if you’ll allow me to escort you to your penthouse.”
I can’t resist the formal, possibly effected Jeeves voice. “Sure. I love a good escort.”
That came out wrong.
I start to follow him to the elevators, but I can’t resist glancing back for one final glimpse of the Cavill clone. My gut twists unexpectedly at the sight of his hunched shoulders as he studies his phone.
Bad news?
You can’t know that. You’re not a psychic wizard spy like Mr. Gordon. Your dick is confusing you.
It really is. Between the goodie basket and my bag, I’m managing to conceal it, but it isn’t easy. If Mr. Gordon saw the tent I’m pitching, he might get the wrong idea. Not that I know what the right one is.
This isn’t normal for me, in case you were wondering. I’ve never been into, or suffered from, the dreaded PDEs—Public Displays of Erections. Even as a teenager, I did my best to reel it in.
In fact, let’s take that honesty train all the way to Specific Station. Until now, I haven’t experienced the one-look-boom-I’m-erect kind of chemistry everyone demands these days, because millennials and avocado toast.
Forgive the unintentional Dad jokes. As you know, I hang out with a lot of parents for a living.
I’m a slightly overworked but successful twenty-eight-year-old male in my prime. I’ve participated in all the usual rites of passage, from backseat blowjobs at homecoming to hotel room hook-ups at Comic-Con. But I usually need dinner and one drink’s worth of personality foreplay before I decide whether my body gets to put out the welcome mat.
I decide. Because my dick is not the boss of me.
Don’t get our relationship wrong. As soon as my hand could reach it, Dick and I started an affair and our love is eternal. But when it comes to other people, the bigger brain usually captains the ship. Which is why this sudden mutiny has shaken me. I didn’t think I was wired for instant lust.
That honesty train went too far and now it’s just sad, because a stranger who is about as sexually aware of me as the wall I’d mistaken him for is officially the first to flip my switch. That would be disconcerting enough without this simultaneous desire to comfort him.