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)
“Of course.” Grandma beams. “Come, I’ve prepped the guestroom for you two.”
Wait a sec. Guestroom, as in one room? This being Florida, my grandparents have two spare bedrooms, one of which doubles as Gramps’ lounge/office—and I’d assumed they’d put Marcus in one of them and me in the other, as befits propriety. But that’s not what seems to be happening.
A sinking feeling invading my stomach, I follow Grandma out of the living room, with Marcus on my heels.
“Here we are,” she says, throwing open a door to reveal a cozy, softly lit room with a neatly made queen-sized bed and an attached bathroom. “All nice and ready for you two.”
Oh God. Shoot me now.
I’ve never had a boyfriend sleep over at my grandparents’ place before, as the last time I was seriously dating someone—my college boyfriend, Jim—they still lived in Brooklyn, in a converted two-bedroom that I shared with them. It was barely larger than my current studio and the walls were super thin, so Jim and I would go to his parents’ house in Long Island to hang out.
Which is to say that I don’t have any precedent to compare this to. Still, logic would dictate that most grandparents—even liberal ones, like mine—wouldn’t encourage their granddaughter to engage in premarital sex under their own roof.
Of course, my grandparents have never been like most, but is a little prudishness too much to ask for?
I really, really don’t want to share a bed with Marcus.
Or rather, after those brain-melting kisses outside, I want it way too much.
“Thank you, Mary. It looks lovely. We really appreciate your hospitality,” Marcus says—again taking the lead before I can figure out how to deal with this development. And why is he on a first-name basis with my grandmother?
Did they get all buddy-buddy while waiting for Gramps and me to arrive?
Stepping around me, he walks into the room, my suitcase in one hand and a duffel bag that must be his luggage in the other. He probably grabbed them from the living room when I wasn’t looking—except how does he even have luggage in the first place? To get here so quickly, he had to have jumped on a plane right after I left.
Does he keep an overnight bag on his private jet in case he wants to chase some woman on a moment’s notice?
Wait, why am I worrying about his luggage when we’re about to be forced into sharing a bed? This is not a viable sleeping arrangement. At all. Given Marcus’s intense sex drive and the fact that I go up in flames if he so much as breathes on me, it’s pretty much a given that as soon as that door closes, we’re going to be horizontal—and for the sake of my sanity, that can’t happen. I definitely need to ask Grandma for separate rooms. Only how do I do that without fessing up to the whole deception? She and Gramps have seen me in a robe at his place, so I can’t exactly pretend our relationship hasn’t progressed that far.
As I’m wrestling with this dilemma, Marcus sets down both bags and begins to unpack my suitcase, taking out my clothes and setting them in neat piles on the bed with the calm self-assurance of a man who has every right to handle my things. At any other time, my jaw would be on the floor, but after everything that has gone down tonight, his temerity barely fazes me.
What does bother me is that my grandmother beams brighter at this arrogant display. To her, it must look like we’re already perfectly comfortable with each other, kind of like an old married couple. She probably thinks Marcus is being helpful by unpacking for me, instead of seeing his actions for what they are: a ruthless takeover of my life. I can just see her telling Gramps all about what a nice man Marcus is, so domesticated and caring and organized.
At this very moment, he’s hanging my T-shirts. Actually hanging them in the guestroom closet. Oh, and ordering them by color, light to dark, like a serial killer.
He must be the one with OCD, not his butler.
“Goodnight, sweetheart. Goodnight, Marcus,” Grandma says before I can come up with a solution to the bed problem. “Sleep well.”
With a quick hug, she hurries away, and then there’s no choice left.
Feeling like I’m entering a dragon’s lair, I ball my fists and step into the guestroom.
5
Emma
Marcus hangs up my last T-shirt—I only brought four, one for each day of the trip—and turns around to face me. His expression is impassive, but there’s no hiding the savage heat in his piercing blue eyes as they rake over me from head to toe. I swallow as my body reacts in an instant, my heartbeat speeding up and my nipples tightening in the confines of my bra. My panties are still damp from making out outside, and that look is all it takes for arousal to flood my core.