Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
I make a face, scrunching up my nose and sticking out my tongue. “This face?”
This is like a playful game of chess, and I’m caught in the suspense of deciding my next move; this bed just became the stage for our little back-and-forth, the script written in the language of shared smiles.
What the hell am I even talking about?
I’m a goddamn idiot.
As Harlow lies there, I feel her eyes follow the contours of my face, roaming from my eyes to my nose to my neck. Chest.
And up again.
Should I seize the moment? I feel like an insecure teenager, one that needs a flashing green “Go!” sign because I don’t know what her look means. Is that a “Come hither?” or a “Don’t bother?”
I’m seriously losing my touch.
My mom told me to stop letting my dick do the deciding, and I’m pretty sure that isn’t the case here, but he’s twitching a little, so maybe he is in charge.
“You’re still making that face,” Harlow says, her voice low.
“Am I? I hadn’t realized.”
“You are. And, honestly, you look constipated.” Harlow pauses. “Do you need to use the bathroom, because I can crank the volume on the TV?”
Oh my God, she did not just say that.
“No, I don’t have to take a shit, but thanks for mentioning it.” I laugh.
She laughs.
It’s all a bit embarrassing actually, but the situation somehow has me feeling like a normal dude. Is this what men deal with when they’re getting to know someone? What it’s like on an actual first date, not one that’s set up by a PR team for publicity?
Is it possible that she’s thinking the same thing I am about wanting to get closer? She sure looks as if she wants me to kiss her—I don’t think it’s the lighting playing tricks on me.
I move closer to her.
“This has been the best day ever,” I whisper, voice filled with wonder.
“Agreed.”
My lips finally touch hers, and she goes silent, soft mouth melting into mine the same way she’s melting back into her pillow, hands coming up to stroke the back of my head. Neck.
It takes her no time at all to trail those pink nails lightly over the skin of my neck, then rake through my hair.
Our mouths open. Tongues flirt before meeting in the middle. She tastes like toothpaste and must have brushed her teeth in the bathroom before she came out, the same way I did before I came down to her room from the penthouse.
It’s fucking delicious.
My cock tingles, but he’ll have to chill for a minute while I get a grip on my hormones.
Damn. What’s this thing she’s doing with her tongue?
Holy shit.
Harlow sucks on my tongue, then my bottom lip, doing something I can’t explain because no woman has done it to me before and now it’s gotten me harder.
Down boy.
Get some self-control, dude.
I have amazing self-control. I have to play football at the level I play at. This kiss should be no big deal. I’ve had my mouth on plenty of faces, lips, and bodies.
But this kiss? This kiss is . . .
Fire.
Has me forgetting all the deal-breakers that have killed past relationships, such as being intimate without a nondisclosure agreement. Banging Harlow without one would be one of the dumbest moves you’ve ever made, Trent has lectured in the past, but let’s be real—I’m probably going to do it by the end of the night.
I know in the back of my brain I have nothing to worry about with her. She won’t sell me out to the media. She won’t cash in on whatever this is between us.
Harlow’s hand is suddenly in the center of my chest, and she gives me a gentle nudge backward, silently commanding me to shift myself so I’m also lying on my pillow. I love it when a woman takes charge—so few of them do—so I gladly let her guide me to my back.
When she hovers over me, her mass of brown hair hangs in soft waves, begging me to touch it. I let my fingers run through, rubbing it with my thumb and index finger; it feels like silk.
She’s not heavy but asks, “Am I crushing you?”
Hardly. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say Sweetheart, grown men can’t crush me running at me full speed in padding. You weigh barely a fraction of what they do.
Instead, I say, “Even if you were, I wouldn’t tell you.”
Her mouth opens.
Closes.
She grins, bending down to kiss me again. Harlow is smug, as if she were a cat stealing the cream, but I’m here to tell her she doesn’t have to steal anything because I’ll give it to her. Hers for the taking.
Anything she wants.
If she’s shy, she doesn’t let on, brazenly kissing the side of my neck, giving it a sniff as she explores. My stubble—I haven’t shaved in three days, so it’s good and prickly—must be scratching up her face, but she doesn’t seem to give a shit.