Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95256 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95256 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
The hem of my sweater hit her mid-thigh and she still wore her hedgehog socks, so the only bare skin visible was from her shins to just above her knees.
“Is that what you’re going to wear in the velvet blimp?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Then I might change my mind and ask for some compensation. Those socks are not sexy.”
But as soon as the bathroom door shut behind her, I had to adjust the growing bulge in my pants and take a few deep breaths.
I could handle this, right? I could lie next to her on that tiny little mattress and go to sleep. I could breathe through my mouth so I wouldn’t smell her. I could face the opposite direction so I wouldn’t see her. I could put the pillow over my head so I wouldn’t hear her breathe. I could pin my hands between my knees to keep them from wandering over to her side. It might be the greatest test of willpower in all my life, and I’d probably only earn a C, possibly a C-, but I could pass it.
Except then she came out of the bathroom with her blouse balled up in her hands, and when she tossed it onto the table by the window, her black bra flew out and landed on the floor.
“Wait, we’re allowed to remove undergarments?” I asked in mock surprise. “Does that mean I can ditch my boxer briefs?”
“Only if they have underwire.” She quickly scooped up the bra and stuffed it into her shoulder bag.
“They do not.”
“Then keep them on.” She sat on the bed again and rummaged through the snack pile. “What’s our second bottle of wine? I’ll find something to pair it with.”
But I was frozen in place. It hit me that she was wearing my sweater with nothing underneath it.
That was so hot.
Granted, it was only my sweater and not my hands against her skin, but my body reacted as if it couldn’t tell the difference. And the way she was sitting with her knees jutting out gave me a glimpse of her underwear—it was also black, and I stared at it like a middle school boy salivating over a centerfold. Were they cotton? Satin? Lace? What would they feel like beneath my fingertips? Against my lips? Under my tongue?
I swallowed hard, a groan trapped in my throat.
“Gianni?” She looked over at me, and I quickly raised my eyes to her face. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” I hurried over to the kitchenette and opened another bottle of wine without even reading the label. It didn’t matter what it was—I just needed more alcohol to numb this attraction to her, this awareness of her body, so I didn’t do anything stupid.
With my back to her, I lifted the wine to my mouth and took a long drink straight from the bottle.
Round Two of Truth or Drink commenced with Ellie relaxed and mellow and me uptight and anxious—a complete reversal of our usual roles.
I started with a non-dirty question on purpose. “What smell takes you back to childhood?”
“Hmm.” She thought for a moment. “I have a crazy sensitive nose, so I can think of lots of things, but one smell I always loved was the scent that hits you when you open a fresh box of crayons.”
I laughed. “That’s so you.”
“I can’t help it. They’re all lined up and perfectly sharpened and the entire box just bursts with possibility . . .” She inhaled, her eyes closing blissfully, as if she had a brand new Crayola box in her hands and not a wineglass. “What about you?”
“Two things—the smell of Bolognese simmering will always remind me of my Great-Grandma Lupo’s house. And the smell of Middle Eastern spices always reminds me of my Lebanese grandmother’s house.”
“So it was always about food, huh?” She ate a few more M&M’s.
“A lot of that is my dad’s influence. He’d try to get me to name the herbs and spices just by smelling them. He’d make it a game.”
“I love your dad,” she said, a little dreamily.
“You do?”
Color stained her cheeks. “I just mean he’s nice. Next.”
“What do you secretly think I’d be amazing at?”
“Is that really a question? Are trying to trick me into saying I think you’d be good in bed?”
“No!” I showed her the screen. “It’s really a question. But do you think that?”
She sighed and swirled her wine in the glass. “Yes. I can’t even believe I’m saying this—I must be drunk. It’s only because of what you said about foreplay. And being patient. And asking what I like. It makes me think that you probably aren’t as self-centered in bed as I imagined you would be.”
I grinned. “So you’ve imagined it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But have you?”
She looked me right in the eye. “Have you?”
“Yes.”
Her mouth fell open.
“I’ve imagined sex with pretty much every hot girl I know.”