Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
The electric chemistry that danced between us on our first date crackles along my flesh. He’s so close that we’re almost touching, his corded forearms resting on the delicate white railing. The pose is casual, but I’m practically vibrating with unspent, giddy energy.
My fingers tremble slightly as he takes the empty cup from my hand, his body heat teasing at the edge of my personal space without making direct contact. He sets it down beside the other gelato cup and turns his attention to my favorite book again.
I watch his broad, masculine hands in rapt fascination as he opens it with deft fingers. His surgeon’s dexterity is obvious now, and I contemplate how I can capture that in the stillness of a painting.
He taps the chapter heading, indicating where he is in the story. My spine tingles in response to the soft brush of his fingertip across the first line, an echo of the way he touched my back when we leaned on the railing at the rooftop of The Magnolia.
“No spoilers,” he warns. “But I want to know what you love about the book.”
He must be a fast reader, because he’s already about seventy percent of the way through. I imagine speed-reading must be a skill he picked up for his studies, yet another impressive quality that reminds me of his formidable intelligence.
His gaze is so intent on mine that I have to glance away again. This conversation suddenly feels achingly vulnerable, as though sharing what I love about the story will reveal intensely intimate information about me.
I look out at the glowing green canopy created by the massive oak trees as I reply, “I love the main character’s fierce independence,” I admit. “Addie defies her family’s plans for her. She forges her own path.”
“She’s a survivor.” His low murmur cuts to the core of me, and his thumb brushes the back of my hand in a shockingly tender caress.
I try for a dismissive shrug. “She’s immortal.”
He releases a low hum that sinks deep into my chest and makes my heart flutter. His fingers thread through mine, fitting our hands together like puzzle pieces.
“But she endures,” he observes. “Even if she can’t die, she’s a survivor.”
“Yes.” My admission is soft, barely audible.
How can he see straight through me? He told me I’m easy to read. I can’t seem to hold back around him, even when my instinct is to keep things light.
“What about the love story?” he prompts. “Do you like that too?”
I keep my eyes fixed on the trees, studying the way the bright sunlight plays through the leaves. Just like when Dane asked me about the red abstract painting in the gallery at The Magnolia, it’s as though someone has turned up the saturation on the world. I’m thoroughly in his thrall, even if I’m visually fixated on the natural beauty that surrounds us.
“I’m a fan of romance,” I manage, trying and failing to sound nonchalant. My voice is soft and oddly throaty, almost sultry.
Keeping our fingers firmly locked, he lifts his free hand and twines my purple curl around his forefinger. “Which character do you prefer: the sweet love interest or the dark god?”
He’s touching my nape, his sure fingers sliding into my hair. He cradles the back of my head in one hand and gently urges me to turn, so that I have no choice but to face him.
His eyes search mine, and his sensual lips tug up at the corners, as though he’s savoring a secret I haven’t divulged aloud.
“I prefer Addie’s relationship with the dark god too,” he says, his voice deep and intimate.
“But he torments her.” It’s supposed to be a protest, but the breathiness in my voice gives me away.
“It’s fiction, Abigail. A fantasy. It’s okay to like it.”
My cheeks heat, and I’m not sure if it’s from shame or arousal.
I have an awful suspicion that it’s both.
His touch is gentle, but I’m locked in his hold as surely as if he had my hair tangled in his fist. He binds me in place with no more than his gaze, his powerful bearing keeping me thoroughly under his spell.
Molten honey drips down my spine to pool in my belly, and an insistent pulse between my legs echoes the beat of my heart.
“Dane…” His name is a plea, and I’m not sure if I’m begging for him to release me or for him to grant me the mercy of his kiss.
14
ABBY
Dane’s remarkable eyes flare when I say his name, and his jaw tightens with masculine hunger. I soften in his hold, allowing him to cradle my head in his broad palm. My breaths come quick and shallow, as though I’ve been jogging in the humid summer heat rather than standing in the mild, slightly salty breeze coming off the harbor. It caresses my flushed skin, and the dichotomy draws a shiver from me.