Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“The thing is, whatever happens between us, I’d do it all again,” I whisper as my mind races a mile a minute. “I’d go back if I could, rewind and live those days again and again. Even with the same painful outcome. I’d do the same things. Say the same things. Because I will never regret you.”
“Fin.” My name sounds like regret as it falls from her lips.
“Should we? Do it again? Maybe we go farther back and find a closet. We could climb in and let our bodies do all the talking. It doesn’t seem as though we’re doing so well by ourselves.”
“You’re a mental case,” she whispers, her eyes glistening. “Absolutely crazy pants.”
“Yeah, I know.” I’m crazy for you. “Should we? You could dry hump me into oblivion. Or stick a spiked heel into my ball sack.”
“What?”
“Or whatever. Whatever it takes to turn the clock back.” To take away this ache, the sense that everything is slipping away. “I’m not that man, Mila. I’m the guy who makes really shitty pancakes because I want to take care of you. I’m the guy who loves your ass, loves your laugh. The one who doesn’t wear shirts, just for your entertainment.”
“It’s not that entertaining,” she whispers.
“Then why do you stare so much?” I lean forward, the space between us a yawning gap. Or a small madness to close, not that I expect—
Madness might be contagious as Mila throws herself at me. The force of her makes me stagger backward as her arms come around my neck and she practically scales me.
“I’m sorry.” Her fingers curl in the shoulder of my sweater. “I know that’s not you, even if part of me wishes it was.”
I grip her ass and make a groan of her name as her legs close around my waist. She reaches down my back, gripping my sweater to pull it over my head.
“Please, Fin.” Her whisper is frantic, her lips trembling against mine. “Please fuck me.”
“So you can tell me it’s my fault in the morning.” Despite my harsh words, my hands—my arms—couldn’t hold her any tighter right now.
“Never.” Her lips a hot press over my hammering pulse. “I’m sorry. I need you.” And so goes her litany as I strip her one-handed from her cardigan, pressing her to the back of the couch to pull off her T-shirt.
Chaotic hair and grasping hands, her legs still linked behind me as she toes off her Converse. Leggings next, panties with them. We work my fly loose together, the gold of her wedding ring glinting in the lamplight as she wraps her fingers around my cock.
“I fucking love that,” I rasp, watching as her thumb swipes over my crown, the pulse there pounding mine, mine, mine. “I like the way it shines when you’re touching me.”
“My ring?” Her brow flickers.
“It makes me feel something I can’t explain.”
She takes my hand, pressing her lips to my wedding ring. Then my hand to her breast. “I need you.” She gives a soft vowel sound as she rubs my smooth crown through her wetness, her breath catching on her next words. “Like nothing else.”
Positioning myself, I thrust upward and, “Fuck!”
I’m in so deep, and so close to her, as I bring my hands back under her ass, tumbling us onto the couch. My back against the cushions, Mila undulates over me, making my vision go hazy around the edges.
“Ride me,” I rasp, all gasping demand. I take her hand and press her fingers to where, with each flex of my hips, I move inside her. “Fuck me, Mila. Make me yours.”
And I thank the stars when she does.
Even if it’s only for a little while.
Chapter 28
Mila
Fin’s kitchen is huge and largely unused. Like the rest of the penthouse apartment, its color palette is moody—matte-black cabinetry and marble countertops veined with gold. Its high-end appliances include an unused professional range and a Sub-Zero fridge, a central island as large as the bow of a ship, and pendant lighting that looks like alien spaceships.
I run my finger over the silky petal of a potted orchid, artfully arranged in a shallow silver urn topped with moss. It’s an odd thing to have on a kitchen counter. But then, so is the stylishly arranged stack of cookbooks, all tonally monochrome, and all unused. And the shiny balloon dog that’s an original Jeff Koons. According to Google, it’s worth twenty thousand big ones. For an ornament.
It’s like another world.
Minutes ago, while drinking my coffee from the built-in Italian coffee machine, I recalled an article I’d read last year about orchids and how some wealthy people—billionaires, I suppose—employ an orchid keeper. That’s an actual job. Someone who tends to the potted pretties, swapping them out for other orchids of the same color and size when the plants go into their vegetative state and stop flowering. For nine or ten months of their lives.