Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 82747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
I work opposite of her, heading toward the top right of the kitchen and pulling all the food stored in the cabinets and tossing them into a trash bag.
Hearing her grunts and mumbled words when she finds a screw that is being a little less than cooperative, I opt to pull my phone from my pocket and turn on a playlist, trying to block out the noises she's making so I can work rather than focus on the way my body is responding to hers.
Fifteen minutes go by before I lose the battle by looking in her direction, only instead of finding her crouched and working, I turn and see her dancing, much like she was doing the night we got into this mess in the first place. The swing of her head reveals that she has put in headphones, and it makes me wonder what she's listening to that she'd choose it over what I have playing on my own phone.
With the way her hips are swaying as she uses the drill as a microphone, living in her own world, I can't help but think her playlist is ten times better than the old country song playing on my phone.
I press my back to the cabinets, crossing my arms over my chest, and spend the next few moments watching her, my lips tugging up at the corners, because she's entertaining as hell, living in her own little world.
It makes me realize, I can't be mad at her for what happened in this room. I instigated that night. I couldn't fight the urge to walk up to her and touch her, to press my mouth to her skin.
What I can be is mad at myself for my inability to resist her, but that anger needs to be internalized, not directed at her.
All I'd have to do is turn back around and get back to work. She isn't glancing over her shoulder, trying to see if I'm paying attention to her. Hell, I probably don't even register with her at all. I gave her a task, and she's doing it, despite the distraction of the music playing in her ears. She's pocketing the screws she pulls from the cabinets rather than letting them fall to the floor. When she struggles with a screw, she just grunts the words to her song differently, as she continues to work.
That ache, the very same one that led me across my kitchen that fateful night, circles around me once again, making my jeans grow tighter in all the best places.
I know where this leads, and it's that knowledge that makes it so damn hard to ignore. Riley Wilson is smoking hot, the best cook, and to my own damnation the hottest lay I've ever had.
She's also too much trouble, and that's pretty damn evident in my inability to get my shit together when she's around.
I can't count how many times I sat up in bed last night, fighting the urge to go to her room. Just having her so close and yet so far away made my skin itch with need. How I managed to stay in that room rather than go to her, I'll never know.
I had every intention of getting up this morning, packing my shit, and leaving without even saying a word to her, but she was in the kitchen, looking like the sexiest thing I've ever had the privilege of laying my eyes on. Then the vixen had the damn nerve to ask me if I liked what she was wearing. It took all I had to keep my mouth closed rather than tell her the only thing she's ever looked better in was her bare skin.
I lick at my suddenly dry lips, my fingertips twitching with the need to touch her, to pull her against my body. I know exactly what it feels like to have her swiveling her hips as I stand behind her. The reminder of how that thick, perfect ass of hers felt against my erection, has my dick straining painfully in my jeans, my need for her growing with every damn word she sings off-key as she works.
I turn away from her, pressing my palms to the counter and dropping my head between my shoulders, but several deep breaths do nothing to help me refocus. I struggle with the decision on what I should do next, knowing it would be better for me in the long run if I can manage to just get outside, thinking maybe frigid air could go a long way in helping me get my head back in the right place, but when I turn around to walk out of the room, I once again can't resist looking in her direction.
She hasn't missed a beat with her hips swaying, and the limited control I had breaks. Instead of leaving the room, I cross the room in her direction, my body somehow wound tighter than it's ever been and also calming with every step closer I take to her. I don't have the brain power right now to even consider what that might mean as I step up behind her. Her body jolts in surprise, but she doesn't try to get away from me.