Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 121764 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121764 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
“Boundaries?” I asked, letting my hand fall.
He heaved out a long breath. “That night in Austin…”
The words hung between us, Jaxson eyeing me like I could fill in the gaps of what he wasn’t saying.
“I meant what I said in the text, Grace. I want to be friends.”
I swallowed. “What else would we be?”
His nostrils flared a bit, his eyes searching mine.
When he didn’t reply, I shot my hand out again with a smile. “Nothing to worry about. You’re a friend helping another friend get over a stupid boy. Just a couple of buds on the open road on a mission to have some fun.” I held up my other hand, two fingers raised like a Boy Scout. “No hanky panky, I swear.”
Jaxson eyed my hand warily for a long moment before he finally took it in his own, and when he did, another jolt of the night we’d spent together two weeks ago hit me like a freight train.
I felt that same hand sliding up my rib cage, felt a zap of heat between my legs when I remembered how he’d palmed my breast and groaned in my ear at the feel of it. I’d tested him that night, pushing him to the edge in every way I possibly could.
And just when I thought I’d broken him, when his hands were rough and needy, his mouth on track for mine…
My brother had ruined it.
Jaxson tore his hand away as if he was living the same memory, clearing his throat and pulling his sunglasses from his pocket. They must have been prescription, because he removed the ones he was already wearing before sliding the sunnies on, instead.
He rounded the SUV then, opening the passenger side door and gesturing for me to get inside.
As I slid in and buckled my seatbelt, I was already dreaming about all the ways I could test that friend boundary.
Play With Me
Jaxson
Fuck, this was a bad idea.
I felt that notion in every inch of my body, which was buzzing in warning with Grace Tanev sitting cross-legged and barefoot in the passenger seat next to me.
She was singing along to some song I’d never heard before, the lyrics in a foreign language that I guessed was Korean. One of her hands was tapping on her knee and the other was feeding her sour gummy worms from the pack nestled between her legs. She had remnants of the beach on her feet and calves, white sand hugging her tan skin in a way that made me jealous. Thank fuck I’d gone with the rental. Snacks and sand, in my baby?
I shuddered even at the thought.
I could tell she hadn’t slept for shit. Her eyes were tired, a little puffy, the edges of her smile still sad. She also looked like she’d rolled out of bed and grabbed an Uber without a second thought when I texted her this morning. She had on tiny, flimsy little sleep shorts and a spaghetti strap crop top with no bra underneath. Her hair was greasy and pulled into a ponytail, which had half-fallen out, the hair tie holding on for dear life at the back of her head.
She didn’t wear a stitch of makeup, either.
I found that more irresistible than anything else.
I was so used to women getting dolled up for me. And don’t get me wrong, I fucking loved that. There was something about a woman with her hair curled, her eyes lined, thick lashes and ruby red lips that just made me want to fuck. I liked having a woman like that on my arm. I liked the way Grace had looked all dolled up at the NHL Awards two weeks ago.
But this?
This was like having a backstage, all-access pass to the most mysterious woman I’d ever met. It was unfiltered. It was real.
And goddamn, it was sexy as hell.
Those shorts revealed every slender inch of her legs, and with her sitting cross-legged the way she was now, I couldn’t stop peeking over at the lean muscles of her inner thighs, and how that flimsy scrap of fabric just barely hid her pussy from view.
Yep.
This was a bad, bad idea.
Add in the fact that being in a car on the highway with no destination in mind gave me fucking hives, and you could say the first couple hours of our drive were not the most comfortable.
I wished I had fond memories of road trips from growing up, but for me, it usually meant one of two things.
One — there was an AHL player offering private lessons that my father was convinced I had to have, and he’d pawn every single thing my mother or I cared about to afford it if he had to.
Or two — he and Mom were fighting, and Mom had shoved me into the backseat as if I were a suitcase to take me with her wherever she was planning on blowing off steam for a few nights.