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)
“Can you please stop talking?” She whips around to face me, her dark hair fanning across her face. She angrily bats it away.
“You are as cute as a fistful of buttons when you’re angry, Mrs. DeWitt.” All kinds of fun and so easy to annoy. Rocking back on my heels, I slide my hands into my pockets and allow my eyes to rake over her.
“In percentage terms, how often does that work for you?”
I’m taken aback by her question. I expected a reaction but not a genuine-sounding inquiry. “What do you mean?”
“And is it because I’m short,” she adds, tightly folding her arms, “or because I’m female that you think you can denigrate my ire.”
“Your ire?” Oh, oh. I tamp back my smile. Talk about a one-eighty.
“Rage. Fury. General”—she makes an airy motion in the air as though the right word might float by for her to grab—“pissed-off-ness. I’m not cute; I’m fucking angry,” she annunciates, like the wickedest school prefect I ever did hear.
And there she is again. My girl.
My wife.
“Got it,” I say, aiming for and achieving obliviousness. “Glad you’re back on the cursing thing. It’s good for clearing the old throat chakras, right?” Then I wink.
“This is so wrong,” she mutters, her attention turning to a nearby pandanus tree as though she’s talking to herself. Or maybe the spiky tree. “This situation is untenable. It’s fundamentally fucked up. I’m going to kill him. Or end up in a psych ward.” Her attention swings back, her gaze narrowed so sharply, it’s almost piercing. “It’s annoying, you’re annoying, and you’re not taking my feelings into account.”
“Right. Got it.” I bring my hand to my chin. “Honesty it is, then. I guess I just don’t feel as horrified about the situation as you do.” Not that she felt that way last night.
Her gaze flickers as though she doesn’t trust what I’m saying.
“And I’m not gonna apologize for calling you cute. You are small, and you are female, but that’s got nothing to do with it. I guess I’m just perverse, because the kind of cute you are right now feels more like Medusa.”
She throws up her hands. “That’s hardly an improvement. Excuse me for remaining unmoved.”
The hell she is, because I remember the things she said last night, the way her fingers pierced as she clung to me and how she writhed in my arms. The memories rise with a resonance that I feel deep in my gut. It was more than sex. More than pretend. It just felt right. Beyond that, I can’t tell her what happened between us. She wouldn’t believe me, and I’d look like a manipulating asshole.
“For what it’s worth, your hair is less snakelike,” I say, watching a breeze catch the strands, making them dance. “But it does have a life of its own. And the angry looks you throw my way aren’t turning me to stone, but they do give me wood.”
“Unbelievable!” Yet her eyes still dip as though to check.
“I never claimed to be a poet, but I am honest. I can’t help that I find you hot when you’re angry, and you’re not allowed to yuck my yum, honeybuns.”
“I’m not allowed to what?”
“That’s a thing. Bottom line, I’m not trying to diminish the way you feel about this situation, but I am goading you. Because your opposition to this inevitability?” I add, moving a finger between us. “It’s awesome, like a flavor all of its own. It’s goddamn umami.”
She stares at me in disbelief, then shakes her head. “You’re wrong in the head.”
I laugh. Loudly. She might be right on that front, but while I enjoy these interactions and our at-odds positionings, I’ve also seen the other side of her. The side that wants me. For me. But how she gets to the point of realization that she can be raw and honest without consequences, I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.
Medusa. What the fuck was I thinking? Couldn’t I have just told her she’d floored me? That in her borrowed wedding dress, she’d looked too beautiful for words? That last night—Fuck, last night—it was as though she’d been saving her desire for her whole damn life? Saving her feelings, even. She’d had so many feelings, and I’d appreciated each and every one of them.
I’ve thought of her often since the night we met four months ago. Thought of us fucking, sure, though my imagination didn’t come close to the reality. But last night wasn’t just sex, and this isn’t the start of an infatuation. It feels way beyond that.
To put it another way, I’m an instinctual creature. And this feels right to me.
“You’re too fucking cute.” I suck in a breath and give my head a slow, appreciative shake.
“Stop calling me that,” she demands, through gritted teeth, all piss and vinegar.