Total pages in book: 244
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Of course, he knew.
He knows I try to be in control.
He knows I want to kiss him when I come.
Smashing my lips to his, I fuck him hard as I chase my release.
I could drown in his kisses. Maybe I will tonight as pleasure consumes every cell in my body, and Jude fills all of my mind, till I reach the edge, gasping a string of orgasm-fueled curses as I come. For a minute, maybe more, my mind goes blank, spinning into a haze of bliss. And then, as my brain comes back online, into one shockingly stark awareness.
There is no a little crazy for him.
I’m just plain crazy for Jude, and I’m pretty sure all these emotions will devastate me.
And I won’t do a thing to stop the ruin.
22
ABOUT LAST NIGHT
TJ
This is not my bed.
Which means I’m not near my alarm.
Which also means I conked out with Jude.
He’s parked on his side, the sheets riding low on his back, his hair sticking up as he sleeps.
My heart gives a kick. I could get used to this view.
That’s the trouble. Rubbing my eyes, I sit up and look around for a clock, but there isn’t one.
I really hope I didn’t sleep past seven-thirty. I need to be in the office by eight-thirty.
Quietly, I swing my feet out of bed, but the floorboards creak. I freeze in my birthday suit, stealing a backward glance. Jude rustles, flipping over to his back, and I stifle a groan.
He’s hard, his morning wood tenting the sheets.
He sighs, stretches, and I’m sure he’s going to open his eyes, push up on his elbows, and then suggest I take care of matters south of the border.
I would.
But he stays asleep.
Maybe that’s for the best. We might have to talk if he got up, and I still don’t know what to say to him.
I pad out of his room, carefully snicking the door shut behind me.
I hunt for my phone, finding it in the living room on the coffee table. In three, two, one seconds, it will blast off.
But I catch the alarm in time, silencing it.
Good. Don’t want to wake up Jude.
Though to be fair, my alarm beeps every weekday, and I don’t worry about waking him. Today though? I definitely don’t want him up because I don’t know what to say about last night.
Hey, so that was amazing, and I want to sleep with you ten million more times. What do you say we bang our way through the next fifty weeks, seven nights a week, and in the mornings too?
Oh sure, I know it’s a terrible, risky idea, and no way would it work out, but I’m insanely into you, and I promise I won’t develop a smidge of feelings for you.
Well, nothing more than the smidge AND A TON AND A HALF I have right now.
Yeah, this won’t be an easy convo, and we didn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole last night.
After sex, we cleaned up, then when I stood in the hall, pondering where to go—because that’s what I fucking do, I overthink everything—he just rolled his eyes, tipped his forehead to his room, and said, “Come on. I might want to suck you off in the middle of the night.”
Well, I didn’t turn that down. But he didn’t blow me either. We both slept straight through.
And now it’s tomorrow.
Talking about last night is inevitable, but the thought churns my gut.
I gather my clothes from last night, hang the still-damp ones to dry, then jam the rest into the hamper in my room before I head to the shower. Under the water, I try to make sense of what’s next. I try to brace for whatever Jude will say. That was fun, but let’s move on now that we’ve got that out of our systems, shall we?
My chest is a little hollow, knowing that once is probably all we’ll have.
One time can be explained as a mistake. Or a necessity, what with hormones and all.
Anything more is deliberate. As deliberate as playing with fire and thinking you won’t get burned.
When I reach the office, right on time, Alex waits for me at my cube. He holds up a hand to high-five, question marks in his eyes.
I roll mine. “I could ask the same of you.”
He nods in satisfaction, then points his thumbs at his chest. “Oh, yeah. This American loves London.”
“Get it,” I say, then smack his palm.
“And you? Did you finally have that night at the London Sex Exchange with your”—he stops, clears his throat dramatically—“friend?”
As best I can, I rearrange my features, so they’re stoic. I take my time, though, since I’m not sure how I want to answer.
In my silence, Alex leans closer, swings his gaze from side to side. “Dude, I know it’s your roomie. You’re so fucking obvious.”