Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
“What’s the time?”
I don’t know why she’s asking. She’s not going anywhere. “I left my watch downstairs.” I start to peel us apart, and she grumbles. She doesn’t want to leave, so it should be fine that I won’t let her. “I’ll go take a look.”
“You need a clock in here.”
“I’ll put in a complaint to the designer.” I get up and go downstairs, finding my Rolex on the island. “Seven thirty,” I call, slipping it on, focusing on my wrist and not her purse a few feet away. Hiding her clothes is a short-term fix. I need a long-term fix.
You have one!
I clear my throat and push her purse away without looking, focusing my attention on the fridge as I approach it. I hear the urgent pounds of her feet flying down the stairs, and I smile at the piles of clothes as I take a jar of my vice from the shelf and settle on a stool, waiting for it.
She lands in the kitchen as I take my first mouthful. Naked. Sexed up. She looks incredible after mind-blowing sex, but I sense my contentment ends now. She looks in a rush.
“You’ll have to drop me at home.”
Have to? Wrong. “I’m a bit busy this morning.” I dip and sweep, pouting at my finger as I pull it from the jar.
“Where are my clothes, Jesse?”
I plunge and suck the good stuff off, closing my eyes, savoring the taste, before slowly dragging it past my lips. “I’ve no idea.” I lick my lips and re-dip, hearing her snort and stamp out of the kitchen. I smirk and continue with my breakfast, looking up at the doorway every now and then when I hear a door close or a drawer shut.
I have a childish little chuckle.
“Where are my fucking clothes?” she yells, appearing at the doorway as I startle, nearly biting off my fucking finger. For the love of God.
“Watch your fucking mouth,” I bellow, my appetite gone. What is it with this woman? What is it with you, Ward? But look at her. Things so vulgar shouldn’t fall from the mouth of something so beautiful. And she has the nerve to look at me in disapproval? She is so far past unreasonable, she really could be the death of me. Going from naught to one hundred miles an hour in a fraction of a second can’t be good for my heart.
“Jesse.” Her head tilts, and it’s condescending as fuck. She thinks I’m the unreasonable one. She’s a case. I’ll show her unreasonable. Happily. “I never swore out loud before I met you.” Her eyebrows raise slowly. “Funny, huh?” She smiles sweetly, and I snarl. Not funny at all, actually. “I need to get home so I can get ready for work.”
Work. Fucking work. Why does she have to have a job? Or anything that takes priority over me? Because she is sure as shit my priority. “I know you do.” I moodily shove my finger back in the jar.
“So, where are my clothes?”
“They are . . . somewhere.” I look up, and the repulsion on her face strangely makes me smile. She doesn’t like my vice of choice? Maybe she would if she knew of my previous vices.
“Where is somewhere?” she asks.
I swallow down my peanut butter, the voices in my head talking non-stop. You can’t keep her prisoner. How will that help you? Don’t crowd her. I pout. She likes being crowded. “If I tell you,” I say, reluctantly accepting the voices in my head are right. Yet the notion that my time in bliss will soon be temporarily suspended isn’t resting well. “You have to give me something in return.”
Her nostrils flare. “What?”
“Don’t drink tomorrow night.” I blurt it out quickly and brace myself for the blowback. But, and I will fight her on it, I am not prepared to accept that level of drunkenness, especially when I’m not around.
“Fine.”
Huh? Just like that? I’m elated. She’s getting good at this. “That was easier than I thought. What about lunch later?”
“Okay. Get my clothes.”
“Who holds the power, Ava?”
“You do. Get my clothes.”
I slide my jar onto the counter, satisfied. “Correct.” That’s a good day’s work done. Until lunchtime when I suspect she’ll challenge me all over again. But I’m ready. Armed.
I go to the fridge and pull out her pile of things, presenting them to her. “Here you are, lady.”
She frowns, glancing past me to the fridge. And I beam at her. Aren’t I a clever boy? Then she scowls an epic scowl, but I let it slide. I’ve won.
She grabs her things viciously. She just can’t help herself.
“Have I got time for a shower?” I ask as she dances around the kitchen, struggling into her clothes, gasping and hissing at the cold material on her skin.
“No.”
She turns, and her arse is quickly all I can focus on. For cursing like a sailor, I give it a firm slap as I laugh my way out of the kitchen and sing my way up the stairs, humming as I brush my teeth, and whistling as I throw on my running kit.