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)
And by that reckoning, I have problems. One thing is for sure, I have never worked so hard for any woman.
“You’re a fan of the low-hanging fruit.” The recollection is unwelcome, but timely, I suppose, the echo of Matt’s soft Irish lilt somehow softening the insult. Even if it landed true. Oh, I protested, but he was right. I don’t chase women. And I’m well aware of why, even if no one else is.
Rolling onto my side, I punch my pillow a couple of times, then nearly fall off the edge of the couch. Fuck, I can’t believe I’m here. My bed is huge—I would’ve made a pillow wall if she’d wanted.
I thought for sure she’d change her mind. Not for sex, although obviously I hoped. Which is pretty much all I am at the moment. Hope. And skin and bone. And dick. Which I’m trying to ignore right now.
I roll onto my back again and shove my hand behind my shorn head.
I wish she’d open up. I know there are places we could find common ground. Our childhoods, for one. Because nothing says soulmates like dead parents?
There’s something she’s not saying. Maybe about her grandmother? I guess she’s not the only one. In my case, I was fucked over by my grandfather. Did that experience make me the way I am? Probably.
And there I go, spoiling my mood again.
Hey, Mila, if we’re both fucked up, then maybe we belong together!
Rotating my shoulders, I tweak my neck, turning it this way and that, trying to move a little of the tightness out. I am single by choice. Thus far. And Mila hasn’t been single for some time. The circumstances are hardly ideal.
It would be one thing if she were to say that it’s too soon, that she needs to heal / smell the daisies / screw a whole soccer team. Then I wouldn’t be sleeping on the couch. I’d be in there, working as hard as eleven men.
She’d been lied to for years—I understand her reluctance. But I also get some sense of less than from her, especially in relation to her body. Her hot, heavenly body.
“Fuck.” With that groan, I kick my feet from under the sheet. She’s built the way a woman should be, which is . . . any fucking shape a woman wants to be, in truth. But all that shit she told me, was she confiding in me or trying to put me off?
You’ll have to try harder than that, my delectable wifey.
She has money issues, as far as I can make out. I can help her there, because the only issue I have with money is what to do with the stuff. I’d offer to help her in a heartbeat, but I like my teeth where they are.
But there’s also something else going on under the surface. Some other reason behind her reluctance. It feels kind of familiar. Self-protection, would be my guess.
I just wish she’d let me in. I could try to make it better. Make her feel better, at least.
I lift my fist, and when I should maybe hit myself in the face, I use it to rub the sudden ache in my chest. I see her in my mind’s eye, her dress white and her eyes bright. Pen in her hand, the official in his lightweight summer suit standing behind.
I sigh and swallow over the sudden tightness in my throat.
It wasn’t a conscious thing that made me do what I did in that moment. I didn’t reason it out or weigh up the pros and cons. I just knew it felt right. That in the depths of my heart and to the very marrow of my bones I’d follow her to the ends of the earth.
I groan again, the visual of Mila in the ocean rising like steam. Hair, swimsuit, and skin slick, her nipples as hard as diamonds. Fuck, how I wanted to press my tongue to them.
How I loved watching her movements turn languid with her second glass of champagne during dinner. Her laughter a little throatier. Her words a little naughtier.
I know she’s into me. It’s in the way her breath holds when I touch her and how her eyes darken at what they see in mine.
I sigh again, and shift, my body taut with tension.
I want what I can’t have, and she wants what she won’t let herself have.
“It’s so fucked up.”
We’ve both been traumatized by life. We were both raised by our grandparents, and we both bear some scars.
We both like champagne. And swimming.
And neither of us can keep our eyes off the other.
We’re both excellent in bed. And so fucking compatible.
Hell, I’ve seen relationships start on less than that.
I bring my hand from behind my head, cupping my balls as I kick the sheet from my body, fighting to untangle it from my feet. I lift my cock from my shorts with a groan. One slide, and moonlight emphasizes the drop of moisture on my slit, turning it the color of a freshwater pearl. I drag my hand up my hard length, squeezing the crown with a hiss as I pinch the sticky bead.