Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 111959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Sure, they’d had their fair share of chemically confusing moments, where his closeness made her blood pressure spike and curled her toes in her shoes—the man was certifiably gorgeous. Sure, she’d stared at the incendiary picture of his hard-packed backside until her hormones had forced her fingers down the front of her panties. Before she knew it, said panties had come off completely. She might have been in the process of masturbating to a picture of her boss when he’d knocked on the door. Acting natural had been a challenge on par with pole vaulting with a piece of asparagus.
They’d settled into what could actually be a successful partnership. Some mild flirting, fine, but overall a respectful working relationship. More than she could have hoped for, actually! But sitting beside him on a couch in the near-dark hotel suite—tucked up against his well-muscled side like they were on a date—while watching Leonidas put it down on his old lady was making pulses pound in places they had no business pounding.
Good lord. Don’t think about pounding.
Was she making a bigger deal out of this than it was? Golfers and caddies tended to bond, didn’t they? Many of them were best friends or even family, because of the trust factor being so important. Perhaps . . . they’d simply gotten closer, she and Wells. This was what they did now. They snuggled up and watched movies like a couple of ol’ pals.
Merely hoping to confirm that plausible theory, Josephine snuck a quick glance up at Wells’s face and found his expression strained, his gaze trained on her face instead of the movie.
Oh boy. Okay. Not just pals.
“I’ve been thinking,” he started, in a low rumble that she could feel deep in her belly. “We’re pretty good at this flirting thing, right?”
The temperature of her skin rose, face to fingertips. “Actually, I feel like I’m kind of bumbling my way through it.”
He hit pause on the movie while arching a brow. “That picture you sent me was not bumbling. That was expert level.”
“Oh.” She bit down on a smile. “Good.”
“Good?” He made a sound in his throat. “Belle. The earth moved.”
The smile just kind of exploded across her face.
She heard him swallow. Loudly.
“Anyway, we have flirting momentum now. We should keep going. Do you agree?”
This man kept surprising her. She had to be on her toes around him, yet she also had this very distinct intuition that it would always be okay to let her guard down. How unique. “Yes. I agree,” she said, trying not to sound breathless. “It would be irresponsible to let the flirting momentum drop.”
Wells nodded, took his time looking her over, his attention eventually returning to her face. “What makes you smell so goddamn good, Josephine? Is it lotion? Perfume?”
“Lotion,” she managed, bumpily.
“Thought so.”
“It’s a vanilla-lilac mashup. Very seasonal.”
“Very distracting.”
“How?”
“You show up smelling like that and I immediately think of you . . . applying it.” Never had the word “applying” sounded so filthy. “That’s how.”
“Yes, I put it on in slow motion, slowly stretching each freshly shaven leg out in front of me, toe in a perfect point—”
“Don’t shatter the illusion,” he teased, reaching over and tugging on the lapel of her robe, turning her body to face him more fully on the couch. Her knee left the confines of the robe to rest on top of his thigh and they both stared down at the contact for a breath, until he said, “You like the way I smell, too?”
“Yes.” She couldn’t seem to get her voice above a murmur. “Lotion or perfume?”
His lips twitched. “Aftershave.” Gaze never leaving her face, he brushed a thumb over her bare knee. “Why don’t you come sit on my lap and smell it up close?”
There was no oxygen to be had. “Okay.”
Wells leaned toward Josephine, movements unhurried, his mouth stopping a hairsbreadth away from her own, his big arms locking around her middle and dragging her back with him to the other side of the couch. And now, she was sitting on Wells’s lap in her robe, her butt on his muscle-packed right thigh, her exposed legs draped over the left one. “Go ahead.” His mouth moved in her hair, his hand fisting the belt of her robe. “Smell me.”
Was the couch tilting? “Is this how you usually flirt?” she asked.
“Josephine.” He lifted the hand wrapped in white terry cloth, using it to nudge her chin higher. And he looked her in the eye. “I never flirt.”
What did that mean? She couldn’t really find the wherewithal to decipher that statement, because she was nearly salivating with the need to smell this man. Up close like this, his aroma went from attractive to appetizing and she was powerless to do anything but dip her nose into his neck and inhale, notes of eucalyptus and almond oil rolling her eyes into the back of her head. Meanwhile, his hand, still fisting the fabric of the belt, was sliding up and down the valley of her thighs, stopping just at the border of indecency.