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)
I bet he’s never liked it so much, needed it so much that he’d consider marrying a stranger.
“I think it’s time to wash this soap away,” he says as he reaches toward the tall tap. Which turns out to have a detachable showerhead. Warm water suddenly rains down on my breasts, and I make a startled noise, my arms rising from the water to reach for his.
“Hush now,” he whispers, leaning closer and pressing the showerhead between my legs. “Open your legs for me, sweet girl.”
And fool that I am for his touch, for him, I do.
Chapter 22
Fin
“Fin?”
Busted.
I get a little twinge in my gut as Mila pauses at the other side of the tiny kitchen, her head tilted like she’s an inquisitive terrier. An adorably sleep-mussed terrier, dressed in the obnoxious Hawaiian shirt I was wearing this morning. I love the sight of her in it, and I just know I’m staring at her like a man starved.
Not that she’d admit it, but she’s eyeing me just the same. She might complain about my lack of shirt wearing, but she fucking loves it so much, she deprived me of that one.
“What can I do for you, gorgeous?” I turn to face her, leaning my hip against the countertop.
“I was going to ask you what you’ve done with all my underwear, but . . . What are you doing?” She scrunches her nose adorably.
“Your underwear is missing?” I tap the spatula to my side as my gaze falls over her. “So what are you wearing under my shirt?”
Pursing her lips, she sends me a look that says: mind your own business.
“I was making pancakes. Trying, at least. But the fuckers won’t stay up,” I mutter, hitting attempt number five with the spatula. I’m unsurprised when it improves its appearance.
We barely moved from the suite yesterday. Hell, the bedroom! We fooled around and fucked, taking naps in between. We’d wake glued together, Mila spread across my chest. One trail of her fingers, one slide of her foot along my calf, and we’d be off again.
Or maybe we’d wake spooning. Mila is the best little spoon. And you know what they say about spooning. It usually leads to forking; I can confirm.
We paused only to eat and walk along the beach at sunset, followed by a midnight skinny-dip in the pool. Mila is so fucking beautiful, but wet and glistening in the moonlight? I barely survived that round.
“Fin?”
“Sorry, what was that?”
I watch as she steps up to the small breakfast area, her legs lithe and her dainty toes painted pink.
“Why are you making pancakes?” she asks, waving her hand over the food laid out.
I want to fuck her. Right here, in the kitchen. Bend her over the countertop, turn her ass pink with the spatula. Cover her tits in chocolate sauce and lick her clean.
She’d taste better than the crap on this skillet, anyway.
“Pancakes were supposed to be the centerpiece. The pièce de résistance,” I complain, indicating the space in the middle of a round platter left for said pancakes. The perfectly spherical space is as hollow as my attempt to impress her, but surrounded by artfully piled berries, papaya, mango, and banana, along with tiny containers of chocolate chips, tiny pouring pots of dulce de leche, two kinds of chocolate sauce, and other fucking bits of breakfast perfection.
“But aren’t these pancakes?” she asks, pointing to the tiny puffs in one corner of the platter.
“Those are poffertjes,” I mutter, waving the spatula vaguely while briefly considering taking the credit for it all. “Dutch pancakes. That shit is all from the kitchen.”
“The churros? Waffles too?” She sounds confused.
“Yeah, they made those. I had them put the platter together and send the ingredients for pancakes,” I say, gesturing behind me with the spatula, only now realizing what a mess I’ve made. The soles of my feet are gritty with sugar, and the countertops are covered in flour and steel mixing bowls, whisks, and other stuff I don’t know the fucking names for. “I guess the chef must’ve realized I’d be shit at it when they sent so many fucking bowls.” Along with a recipe and step-by-step instructions that a toddler could probably follow. Yet I still got it wrong.
“You made breakfast,” she says, a tremulous smile playing across her lips.
I mean, technically, it’s not even brunch. We’ve mostly skipped food in favor of devouring each other. I wanted to do something nice for her, find some other way to make her eyes roll back in her head. As much as I enjoy fucking her, I wanted to show her I can be more. Do more. Hell, I wanted to woo her, so I thought I could best a not-gay fucking pastry chef? Talk about desperation.
“Go on, yuck it up.” I toss the spatula into the sink behind me. “Some fucking breakfast. I can’t even—” My words cut off as I turn back and feel her arms wrap around my waist and her face press into my chest.