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 feel myself nodding again, despite wanting to be cool about this situation.
“It doesn’t help,” I admit. “I don’t want to be . . . I don’t want to be compared.”
Chapter 29
Andy
It doesn’t help. I don’t want to be . . . I don’t want to be compared.
Compared?
This is exactly what I feared when I overheard her phone call with her friends.
My brain scrambles for the right words as I scoot closer to Harlow, not wanting her to shut me out. We’ve gained a lot of ground today, and I do not want to set us back.
“There is no comparing the two of you because you are the girl who says what’s on her mind and doesn’t make me read it. You’re excited to see me, even when I show up at your door and catch you off guard. And sometimes you don’t want foreplay—you want to get straight to the fucking.”
She laughs at that comment, grinning. “Those are only some of my finer qualities.”
“You’re the badass who was brave enough to meet a stranger in the hotel lobby and tour the city with him, wearing an adorable little mustache that made you look like a creepy little pervert.”
She lifts her fingers and touches her top lip. “I did not look like a creepy little pervert.”
“Sure you did.”
Her head gives a little shake. “That’s what you like about me?”
“Yes. There is no one like you.” I have my hand on her thigh now, and she glances down at it, noticing how my thumb moves back and forth over the fabric of her leggings.
So smooth.
“Well that’s . . .” Her voice is a husky whisper. “Nice.”
“So nice,” I agree, taking her legs and pulling them onto my knees, immediately going to work massaging her calves. “You don’t have to worry about my ex-girlfriend. We don’t speak. We don’t call each other. We don’t text.”
Harlow’s lips part as I stroke her calves.
“There is nothing to worry about.” I say it again so she hears me loud and clear. “She is not in my orbit.”
Such nice calves.
Such great legs.
I’d love to have them wrapped around me.
I rub them up and down, farther and farther up, then down, fingers inching dangerously close to her inner thighs.
Harlow cocks her head. “Are you trying to seduce me?”
“Is it working?” I ask, voice full of hope.
“Hmm. I’m thinking about it.”
“That’s good news,” I murmur. “Think faster because some parts of me are getting hard and want to join the conversation, and that part is my cock. He’s been listening to this entire conversation.”
My dick finds it impossible not to respond to freckles and hair and her teasing voice.
My hands continue working her smooth legs, thumb between her thighs now, caressing them all over.
Harlow shifts.
Takes the pillow from her lap and tosses it.
She’s interested in fucking now. I can tell by the way she wiggles her ass on the couch and moves her legs—as if there is heat between her thighs and it’s causing her pain . . . pain she wants to get rid of.
Perfect.
Excellent.
I want to make everything better between us and take her mind off her worries. I want to make her feel good.
I lick my lips, my mouth watering as blood continues rushing to my dick. This is a state of emergency!
“You know what might make me feel good?” she asks, reading my mind.
“What?”
“A shoulder rub.”
“Are you trying to prove that statistic about massages leading to sex is true?”
Harlow shrugs. “Am I? There’s only one way to find out.”
I grin; our innocent little game of cat and mouse will surely end in both of us winning.
Orgasms: the gifts we give ourselves.
Harlow moves, sitting now so she’s facing away from me but presenting me with her back. Pulls her hair out of my way so it’s draping over only one shoulder.
“Much better,” I whisper into her ear.
She shivers. “Knock it off.”
“Knock what off?”
“It tickles when you talk next to my ear.”
Good again.
My hands begin on her shoulders, kneading.
She moans. “Your hands are so strong.”
My thumbs press into her levator scapulae and rhomboid minor, muscles I learned about from the trainer who works on my body after most practices—one of the many perks that come with the job.
I’m no professional, but I think I’m doing a bang-up job on her back, if her constant moans have anything to say about it. They’re like a five-star review, and I bask in the praise, wanting to hear those little sighs and moans wherever I move my fingers next.
Lower.
Down her spine, pressing.
Down to the hem of her shirt.
I sneak my hands inside, pushing the fabric up, unhooking her bra in the process because—why not? It’s in the way, and we’re both going to end up naked. Why not get the party started straight away?
I am nothing if not practical.
With her back to me, I am at liberty to casually slide my hands up her rib cage, luxuriating in the soft skin beneath my fingers. My palms are rough and calloused, and I know she feels that against her flesh. She obviously doesn’t mind because she shivers again; I doubt it’s from the temperature in the room.