Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 25958 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 130(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25958 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 130(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
“Sure,” I said, because it would give me the opportunity to spend more time with her. It would be a good excuse not to have to leave.
I stepped farther into the kitchen and saw her scooping out a few spoonsful of vanilla into the bowls. There was an array of toppings lined up on the counter by the bowls.
“Damn, you could give Baskin Robbins a run for their money.”
She didn’t say anything at first, but I saw a pretty little smile cover her lips. “Don’t tell Aiden,” she finally said. “But half of this shit is stuff he got, and he gives me a hard time for using it.” She glanced at me and lifted the ice cream scooper she’d just finished using to her mouth.
Of everything holy....
And then time stood still for me as I watched her tiny pink tongue slide out and run along the underside of that scooper. A smear of white ice cream was left on her tongue when she was done, and although I knew she hadn’t meant for that to be sexual, holy fucking shit was it ever.
Good God.
My pulse was right in my cock, the fucker throbbing. She broke eye contact and set the scoop in the sink then started grabbing toppings.
“Help yourself,” she said softly, and I realized I’d been grabbing hold of the edge of the counter so tightly that when I finally let go, my fingers and knuckles ached something crazy.
I was reaching for toppings but not paying attention to what I was throwing on the ice cream. My focus was solely on Delilah. She kept licking her fingers, toppings and melted ice cream covering those slender, feminine digits. God, she was perfect.
She’s mine.
She turned to face me and looked down at my bowl, her brows furrowing before she glanced up into my eyes. “Wow, a little bit of everything, huh?”
I looked at my bowl and grimaced as I saw I legit had put a little of everything on the ice cream.
“You’ll have to let me know how all that tastes together,” she teased and then was leading the way out of the kitchen and into the living room.
Once we were both sitting on the couch, she reached for the remote and started flipping through movies, finally landing on a horror one. I watched her, and watched her, and watched her some more, unable to draw my attention from her.
I fucking loved how she didn’t give two shits about eating her ice cream in front of me. I assumed most girls were weird about eating in front of a guy, but she was comfortable with me. That was clear, and it made this male pride rise up in me.
I got a spoonful of ice cream and curled my lip in disgust as I saw how much shit I’d put on it. But I brought it to my mouth anyway and ate it, all but gagging. I wasn’t into sweets, but I could have at least stomached Plain Jane vanilla. But with all this other shit on it? Yeah. No.
I didn’t want to be an asshole, so I ate one more spoonful before setting the bowl on the table, because there was no way I could eat any more.
Delilah either didn’t notice or didn’t care, because she was too focused on watching the movie and enjoying her ice cream. And then, in turn, I became too focused on her eating that ice cream. I knew she didn’t mean anything sexual by it, but God I was hard as fucking granite as I watched her.
The way she brought the spoon to her mouth and curled her perfect pink lips around the metal before swallowing had my body positively vibrating with the need to drag her onto my lap.
And then she brought her tongue out, dragging it over the indentation of the spoon, lapping up the melted vanilla, before going back for another spoonful.
I found it sexy as hell that she didn’t care that I was sitting right here next to her, that she ate as if she were alone.
God, it was hot. She was hot.
I shifted on the couch, feeling uncomfortably tight in my jeans. She looked over at me then, maybe sensing my stare, maybe feeling the couch shift, or maybe realizing I couldn’t eat any more of the ice cream.
She looked at the bowl, lifted an eyebrow, and looked back at me. “Didn’t like it, I take it?”
I gave her a tight-lipped smile, not wanting to be rude, but also not about to lie. She laughed softly and set her now empty bowl on the table, smoothing her hands over her pants.
“I can’t blame you. It looked like a train wreck in that bowl.”
I chuckled softly and ran a hand over my nape, feeling the tension running through my limbs. But her smile and laugh eased me, probably the only sound—aside from her actually speaking words—that had that effect on me.