Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 408(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 408(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
And if I convince her to move in, I won’t have to.
She’ll be mine to devour as I please.
At first, she’s stiff and passive, not resisting but not participating either, but then her hands slide into my hair, her nails digging into my skull as her tongue angrily pushes against mine. She kisses me with the same violent hunger that pulses through my veins, her body smashing against mine and her small teeth sinking into my bottom lip. The tiny jab of pain impossibly heightens my arousal, and with a low growl in my throat, I slide one hand down her back to cup her—
“And what do the two of you think you’re doing?”
The reedy voice is like a shotgun going off next to us. Startled, we spring apart and face the intruder—a tiny woman standing on the lawn in front of us who looks old enough to have been born during the Civil War. Dressed in a flowery robe that covers her frail body from neck to toe, she’s leaning on a walker and glaring at us, the few wisps that remain of her hair waving in the breeze around her deeply wrinkled face.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Potts,” Emma says breathlessly, pushing her curls off her face with an unsteady hand. It’s hard to tell in this light, but I’m pretty sure she’s blushing. “We didn’t mean to bother you.”
The old woman squints at her. “Emma? Is that you, sweetheart? And who is this?” Angling her walker toward me, she peers up at me. “Is this the young man your grandmother was telling us about?”
“Oh, um… yes. This is Marcus. Marcus Carelli. He’s—he’s visiting. From New York, where he lives, you know.” Emma is babbling, clearly off-balance, and despite the painful pressure in my balls, I can’t help but enjoy her discomfort.
It’s the least she deserves for putting me through the wringer.
Finally, I decide to take pity on her. Stepping toward her, I drape a proprietary arm around her waist and smile at the older woman. “I’m Emma’s boyfriend, here for Thanksgiving. It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Potts. I apologize if we have bothered you in any way.”
She snorts and waves a gnarled hand. “Oh, it’s no bother. I thought it was the teenagers from down the street, up to no good as usual. You two go on now, do your thing. Just use condoms, okay?”
Turning, she shuffles toward her house, and I choke down a shocked laugh. When I glance down at Emma, however, she’s glaring up at me with renewed fury, no trace of amusement on her face.
“Boyfriend?” she hisses, pushing me away as soon as Mrs. Potts is out of earshot. “You are not my boyfriend.”
My own amusement vanishes. “That’s not what your grandparents think. In fact, your grandmother was ecstatic to learn you’re moving in with me. She worries about you living in the city by yourself, did you know that? Almost as much as she worries about the fact that you haven’t dated anyone since college. Before me, that is. She’s very happy we’re dating.”
For a moment, I’m almost certain Emma is going to deck me—that or explode on the spot. “You told my grandmother we’re moving in together?”
“I did.” I smile darkly. “Are you going to tell her otherwise? Ruin her holiday?”
I’m being a manipulative bastard, I know, but I’m fighting for us—and I have no intention of losing.
For a moment, Emma seems struck speechless. Then her temper goes supernova. “You… you ass!” Her curls are all but vibrating with outrage. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
My smile darkens further. “Your boyfriend, kitten. Soon to be your live-in boyfriend—at least as far as your grandparents are concerned. Unless, of course, you don’t mind telling them—and me—why exactly you want this to be over.”
“I told you. Because we’re not compatible,” she says through gritted teeth. “You want your perfect Emmeline, and I—”
“Emmeline?” A puzzle piece—one I would’ve never found on my own—falls into place. “Is that what this is about? Emmeline?”
Emma’s entire body stiffens, and I see it then—the pain underneath the outrage and anger. Her eyes are much too bright, glittering with unshed tears, and her chin is quivering ever so slightly.
She’s hurt—somehow, I hurt her—and all of this is in response to that.
Except what does Emmeline have to do with anything? I only had dinner with the woman once—the night Emma and I met through our Emma-Emmeline/Mark-Marcus blind date mix-up. The elegant lawyer might’ve been a good fit on paper, but we had zero chemistry, and throughout the dinner, all I could think about was the fiery little redhead I’d briefly mistaken for Emmeline. In fact, Emma only knows about Emmeline because on our first real date, she asked if I ever connected with the woman I was supposed to meet, and I told her the truth. We then talked about the matchmaker and what qualities I want my future wife to—