Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 29192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 146(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 146(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
“All for you.” I barely get the words out before he drops to his knees, pulling me to the edge of the bed.
“Not going to waste a single drop.” That’s the last thing I hear before he buries his face between my thighs. He circles his tongue around my clit, causing the ache to grow. I raise my hips, trying to get him to give me what I need, but he pins me in place. It’s the sweetest torture one could imagine. “Trust me to always give you what you need.”
I do exactly that, and I’m rewarded with the most earth-shattering orgasm I’ve ever experienced.
Chapter Thirteen
DYLAN
Natalie shuffles into the kitchen the next morning looking adorably disheveled. Her hair is bunched up into a nest on the left side, and her sleep shirt is inside out. The latter might have been my fault. It’s my T-shirt she slept in last night.
“Hope you don’t mind.” I hold up the spatula. “How do you like your eggs?”
She shakes her head as she slides onto the bar stool and takes a sip of coffee that I placed in front of her before answering. She’s not a morning person.
“Are those pancakes?”
Off to the side are four perfect golden cakes I just slid off the skillet. “Yup, blueberry.”
“Scrambled then. I like the yolks to be runny if I’m having them with toast but otherwise scrambled.” She takes another sip of coffee as if the caffeine is part of the internal composition of molecules keeping her bones together. After a moment of companionable silence while I get her plate ready, she asks, “Is this normal?”
At my quizzical look, she explains, “The next morning. Shouldn’t you be creeping out in the middle of the night and doing a walk of shame?”
“How is walking from your place shameful?” I slide the plate in front of her. “The only reason why I wouldn’t take out an ad to let everyone know I slept in your bed is that I don’t want to be fighting off a football team of men trying to get through your front door.”
Her cheeks pinken to the same rosy shade that colored her skin when I kissed her. It makes me want to sweep everything to the floor and take her on top of the marble, but I resist. Her first time—our first time—should not be on a kitchen counter. Last night was just the first step. No need to rush. The end will be sweeter if we take our time.
“Do you have plans today?”
She shakes her head, mouth full of pancakes.
“We could catch a matinee together, or you could run errands with me. I promised my mom I’d get her new kitchen towels. The ones she’s been using existed when I was a kid. It’s time to retire them.”
“I love a good houseware store.” Nat’s eyes sparkle, and the excitement in her voice backs up her words.
“Great. Let’s stop by my place so I don’t have to walk into Sur La Table commando. I’ve heard they frown on that.”
“Would they know?”
“Possibly not, but my magnetism is so strong that it might cause a riot.”
“We wouldn’t want that.”
Having devoured a full stack before she got up, I clean the kitchen, but I’m soon done, and there’s nothing for me to do but lean against the sink and watch her eat. My attention deepens the pink to a flame red, like her cheeks were when my head was between her legs, and the lips I was kissing weren’t the ones on her face.
I wait until she’s finished before taking her back to the bedroom, where I spend some time eating my second meal of the morning—a tangy, tart one that lingers on my tongue hours later when we’re fully clothed and at the shops.
Natalie picks out the green dish towels with yellow ducks for Mom. She picks up a special gadget for herself that helps slice strawberries for the “strawberry compote I’m going to make with waffles.”
Knitted tea cozies in the shape of chickens catch my eye. I pick one up to see how it’s constructed.
“Does your mom like chickens? I think there were roosters on one of the dish cloths. I’ll go and get it instead of these.” She holds up the towels we had already picked out.
I grab her arm before she can scamper off. “No, the ducks are cute.” I put the chicken back on the shelf. “I was just curious how these were made. They seemed to be too cheap for handmade knitted goods, but it appears they are machine made.”
She peers closer, her cheek brushing my arm as she leans in. “How do you know?”
I fetch the tea cozy off the shelf and flip it over so the inside seam is visible. “Here. A handmade knitted product wouldn’t have seams. Knitters create the structure through increase and decrease stitches. It’s still cute.”