Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 84377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
“I missed this.” She flips to her back with her head propped on my torso. “We used to have the best girl talks, didn’t we?”
I chuckle. “Yeah. How are you doing?”
“Better. Jake’s kind of a bear, but I need that. He makes me write down every feeling and memory and…” She groans. “It’s awful. But then we rehash it over and over until it’s not so awful. He has the patience of a saint.”
“I need some of his patience to rub off on me.”
“You know, it’s nice to see you working for a woman’s attention for a change. You’ll appreciate her more.”
I already appreciate her. Every insatiable, infuriating inch of her. That’s the problem.
Conor laughs to herself. “Remember Stacy in high school? The girl who gave you a scrapbook album of your future life together? It included your wedding with her and random things about you, like your favorite food, color, songs, and there was a whole page dedicated to the shape of your lips.”
I shudder. “The longest conversation I ever had with that girl was, What’s up? Nothing.”
Conor highlights a few more stalkers from my past, and we slide into easy conversation about everything and nothing at all, laughing and reminiscing and losing track of time.
Until the door creaks open.
Jake fills the doorframe, shirtless and scowling.
“You said you were going to grab a glass of water.” He folds his arms across his chest.
Conor sits up and shoves the auburn tangles from her face. “Jarret needed help with his girl problems.”
“She came in here to bum a joint.” I give her a kick off the bed.
“That, too.” She lands on her feet and sashays toward the door, smiling back at me. “Same time tomorrow?”
“You’ll be too tired for conversation.”
Branding season starts tomorrow, which means no downtime for a week.
“Good point.” She pauses beside Jake. “Can I have a piggyback ride?”
“No.” He pops her on the ass. “Get to bed.”
Her laughter follows her out of the room and down the hall.
He turns back to me and hardens his eyes. “Don’t get her stoned.”
“Chill out. Her lungs are safe.”
He studies me for a moment, measuring my mood. “If you need to talk about…whatever’s going on…”
“That’s what I have Conor for.”
We share a grin. Communication between us doesn’t require words. Sometimes we use our fists, but that’s not needed tonight.
With a nod, he steps into the hall and closes the door.
I sink into the mattress and consider rubbing one out before the evening is spent. The bed frame creaks as I shove the jeans down my legs and yank off the t-shirt. Exhaling, I grip the base of my cock through the briefs and close my eyes.
The image of blue eyes and blond curls flickers across the backs of my eyelids. I creep my hand along my swelling shaft, and the air thickens with a craving that goes beyond a quick release.
My heart hammers just thinking about her. I know she wants me. I sense it every time our eyes connect. So why am I lying here alone when she’s right down the hall?
This is madness.
I swing my legs off the bed, fasten the jeans, and walk with purpose to the door. I don’t stop until I reach Lorne’s suite and step inside.
My body tingles as I approach the bed, and I become painfully conscious of my breaths.
And hers.
Soft and feminine, the sound of air flowing past her lips gives me pause. The depth of her slumber is a testament to how much I overworked her today. As I perch on the edge of the mattress, she doesn’t even stir.
Why did I come in here? I knew she’d be asleep, and I have no intention of waking her. I just needed to check on her. I needed to see her.
The hallway light slants through the partially open doorway, painting a gentle glow across her face. She’s a side sleeper, her arms tucked against her chest and hands folded around the pillow. The perfect position to back up against me, side by side, in the center of my bed.
Ringlets of gold splay around her shoulders and arms, engulfing her small frame. Her full lips, slightly parted, emit a small puff of sound with each exhale.
What holds my attention the longest, however, are her lashes. Long and thick, they aren’t clumped together with the black goop most women wear. I don’t think she even owns makeup.
What I wouldn’t give to trace a finger along those lashes. I bet they feel like feathers against the apples of her high cheekbones. Someday soon, I’m going to kiss each of her eyelids and let those sexy lashes caress my lips. I never want to see them wet. Unless it’s on the cusp of pleasure.
She’s going to fall in love with you.
That’s not the danger here.
It’s me. I’m slipping, and I fucking know it. I need to pull back.