Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
“We are,” he says with a smile growing before my eyes. “We never did figure out how, though.”
“Well, Roberta blew my theory.”
He laughs gently. “Good old Roberta.”
I’ve reviewed it a million times and still can’t figure out how our signatures are on that marriage license. “If it wasn’t an accident, how are we married? It makes no sense.”
The timer goes off again. He pushes up to stand, grumbling, “Fucking hell.” Bending down, he places a kiss on my lips. “This spot is mine later.”
“Which spot?” I touch my lips, dragging my fingertip across the bottom, then dipping my tongue to slide along the corner. “This spot?” Lowering my hand, I touch my neck. “Or this one?” All the spots populate my thoughts, addicted to watching his eyes darken as he takes me in. Slipping my hand even lower between my breasts, I ask, “Maybe you meant this—?”
“All of you, babe. I want all of you.”
“I’m already yours.” Along with my heart. I want to tell him I always have been, but nothing about that indicates or respects my own demand of going slow.
The timer goes off again as a reminder, and he throws his arms into the air. “This is why I don’t fucking cook.”
“Because it gets in the way of sex?”
Turning back, he cocks a brow. “That’s exactly why.” I sit up, enjoying the view of his ass, when he pulls the dish out of the oven. I like the feel of it even better.
I fall back with my arms above my head. Why am I torturing myself with slow when I want him so much? And then my stomach growls, so I get up and pull plates from the cabinet.
“Just gone ten,” he answers my question about the time.
Tightening the blanket around my shoulders, I sit back in the Adirondack chair, loving the view of the moon reflecting off the lake. “Do we stick to the agenda and go to bed early orrrrr . . .”
“Toss it. I’m not ready to go in.”
“Me either.” I sip my hot tea, feeling more relaxed than I have in forever. I reach over and slip my hand on top of his, our fingers folding together like we do this all the time. “Thank you for bringing me here.” A light laugh rumbles through me. “Legally coerced, or whatever we’re calling it. I’m glad I’m here.” I lean forward, meeting our bonded hands and kissing his knuckles.
“Legally coerced sounds better than extorted into a getaway with me.”
“However we got here, I’m glad we did.” Three kisses are placed before I lean back and notice the tattoo on his forearm again. “I can’t figure out the design of your tattoo. You didn’t have it last year.”
He lifts our hands, twisting our arms so he can get a better look as if he needs to see it for proof of existence. A leisurely loll of his head to the side has his eyes locking on mine. A few beers and a long drive today mixed with the emotions and physical intensity we share hang his lids lower and have me reconsidering sleep soon. As if he knew that would be the case when he created the itinerary.
He deserves all the credit. Maybe this place plays a significant role, which he’d already know from growing up here. The fresh air gives a new perspective, and leaving most of our troubles in LA allows room to recuperate from what the universe has thrown our way.
He says, “Do you really want to know?” I’m briefly mesmerized when he scrapes his tongue over the center of his bottom lip.
I catch myself and pull my gaze to his arm again. The design is innocuous enough, but now I’m more curious than ever, especially since I haven’t been able to figure it out when I get glimpses. “I wouldn’t have asked, silly.” I laugh, but then stop, starting to wonder if I don’t want to know. “Why does this sound so mysterious? Do I not want to know?”
“I wasn’t trying to freak you out. It’s just . . . It’s personal.” Lowering his arm with my hand still held in his, he shifts his elbow so I can see the design.
We only have the moonlight and light drifting from a lamp hanging over the front door, allowing us to see anything. It’s enough, but I release his hand and lean closer for a better look.
With his finger, he runs along the gentle line with soft shading that flows like a river down his arm. “It’s the curve of a neck, hair captured at the base of the head, and loose strands of hair falling over the back.”
Angling my head, I can see it now. A woman, personal to him . . . my heart sinks as I sit back. I nod unable to speak. After all we’ve been through, after the storms calmed, giving us smooth water to sail—ten months. He fell in love in the ten months we were apart, fell hard enough to memorialize her on his skin.