Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
“I think we need to get up.” I laugh.
“Let’s go. We have a busy day ahead of us, and that day is starting in the shower.” He stands, pulling me up along with him, and leads me into the house by my hand, shutting the door once Ninja is back inside.
“I’ll shower alone. I don’t want to get my hair wet,” I tell him, and his fingers flex between mine as his eyes move from my hair, down my body.
“Sorry, baby, but more than just your hair is gonna get wet.”
“Evan, I’m serious,” I scold, trying to get him to release my hand.
“So am I, baby,” he mutters, dragging me behind him down the hall, through the bedroom, and straight into the bathroom.
As much as it annoys me to admit it, having to blow dry my hair after our shower was totally worth it.
Chapter 9
June
Walking into the bar, my hand held tightly in Evan’s, I wait for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. Evan kept his word from last Saturday about taking me for a ride to meet his friend Colton in Chattanooga. Well, really, he’s taken me on a lot of rides over the last week, but honestly, I think it’s because every time he’s given me a ride on the back of his bike, he’s gotten a ride of a different variety when we get home.
I don’t ride a bike like my sister July and I don’t want to learn, but being snug to Evan’s back, the feel of power between my legs, the wind in my hair, and the warm sun beating down on us is something I have come to crave.
So much has happened over the last two weeks. Evan moved in that first Saturday we had together. We went to the compound and picked up his stuff, not that he had a lot of anything really. All he had was some clothes, a few guns, which I ignored as he packed them away, and two pictures that were not framed and were worn around the edges.
The first picture was of him and me, which he took on his cell phone one day when we were together at his apartment in Alabama. I didn’t have my shirt on, because we had been making out hot and heavy in his bed. My body was pressed to his back, my chin on his shoulder. I was smiling at the camera, with flushed cheeks and swollen lips. He had told me I looked beautiful and that he needed to capture the moment. So he rolled to his side to grab his cell off his side table, and I followed him, pressing close. I forgot about that moment until I saw the picture.
The other was a picture from the day we got married. I was wearing a simple white summer dress with a pair of strappy taupe sandals on my feet, and he was wearing a pair of dark jeans and a dark blue button-up shirt. We were both in profile, his face dipping toward mine, his hand on my waist, mine at his back, with our marriage certificate in my hand.
When I saw those pictures, I cried. I knew he said he was always mine, but seeing those photos, the worn edges and crinkles in the paper from being handled often, I knew he always kept me with him. After I finally pulled myself together, we dropped his stuff at my house then went to the local gardening store and bought furniture for the deck, all dark wood with bright cushions, along with a simple table, chairs, and a grill, because “we needed a grill”—or Evan needed a grill, since I don’t have any luck with barbequing. Every time I tried in the past, the meat was overcooked or burnt to a crisp, and completely inedible.
After we got home that day, we spent time together just us, and did the same for the last week—being lazy, being a couple, and arguing and bickering about what to watch or what to cook for dinner, but we did it all together. Things between us have been falling back into place, and everything about that feels good. No…it feels amazing, while still being a little scary.
Feeling Evan’s hand give mine a squeeze, I come out of my thoughts and tilt my head back toward him. His eyes search my face for a moment, and I know he sees it there when he grins then dips his face closer to mine, and whispers, “We’ll get a room for the night and ride home tomorrow afternoon.”
Shivering at that, I lick my bottom lip and whisper back, “Sounds good to me.”
His face lowers so he can kiss me, and when he pulls away, I turn my head when a deep rumbly voice says, “Fuck me. Jesus Christ, fuck me, Evan?”