Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Like that wasn’t the point of the exercise. When he tries to withdraw from my mouth, my nails dig into his ass cheeks. Guess the message is received. Because he comes with an animalistic growl. One I would pay good money to hear on the regular. I swallow over and over. How his face goes slack as his head falls back. A moment of pure peace. In the long term, oral sex is no replacement for therapy. But it works just fine for the here and now.
His chest continues to rise and fall with swift motions. I place a parting kiss on his still-half-hard cock and put his clothing back in place. Without a word, he watches me grab the water bottle out of my bag and take a drink. I can’t read the look in his eyes. Then the overhead light flickers, a grinding sound shakes the elevator, and we resume our descent to the ground floor. Alistair’s jaw is set in place once more, but he doesn’t seem as wired as before.
He offers me his hand and helps me to my feet just in time for the doors to open. We don’t waste any time stepping into the foyer, where a man is waiting. He’s older, has a shaved head and a hefty ring of keys. At the sight of us, he nods once before wandering off down a back hallway. The ring of keys jangles in his hand the whole way.
“I think we should go,” I say in a low voice.
“Yes.” Alistair straightens his clothes. “That seems like an excellent idea. And if we ever come back here, let’s take the stairs.”
I take a step in the direction of the front door.
He grabs my elbow and steps closer. “One thing first.”
“What?”
His hand slides around the back of my neck and his mouth meets mine and he’s kissing me. Using his tongue and taking me over. A rush of hormones hits my bloodstream, but it’s more than that. It’s the heat in my heart as well. The passion between us and how he shows me. What he’s feeling and thinking and everything.
He breaks the kiss and presses the pad of his thumb to the side of my mouth. “I mucked up your lipstick.”
“I don’t care.”
The smile he gives me is beautiful. “Thank you for coming to my rescue, Lilah.”
“Anytime.”
19
Saturday
My father stands waiting in the driveway to usher us straight into the garage. We’re still without the media on our tail, and it would be handy to have the Cadillac hidden from view. The car is not exactly subtle, though it hasn’t been linked to us so far as I’m aware. Better safe than sorry. It’s wild to think this might be my life now (however much life I have left), dating an unofficial prince and avoiding the paparazzi. Meanwhile, my insides feel light and buoyant for some reason (Alistair). And I don’t hate it.
For the second time today, the man himself seems nervous. Not the panic from earlier in the claustrophobic confines of the elevator. It’s more manageable than that. But he keeps nodding grimly at me. Like we’re going to war or something. Though he’s also been affectionate, or comfortable even, resting his hand on my thigh during the drive over when it wasn’t needed for such important tasks as steering and changing gears. Last night seems to have settled things between us in a nice way. It’s tempting to ask if he’s like this with the other women he’s dated. Touchy-feely. But I’m not sure I want to know. Never ask a question you don’t want the answer to—Mom taught me that. And I worry that if I mention his sweet behavior, he’ll feel self-conscious and shut it down. Which would be sad.
Never has holding hands with someone been so overthought.
As soon as we climb out of the car, he approaches my dad with his hand outstretched. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
Dad shakes his hand with a bemused smile. “You should have told him it’s your mother he needs to beware of. I’m the nice one.”
“Right.” An impending sense of doom settles in my middle. And I was having such a nice time. “What did she make for lunch?”
“Meatballs.”
“Oh.”
“Oh what? What does ‘meatballs’ mean?” asks Alistair in a worried tone. “Why did your eyebrows just do a thing?”
“Meatballs means we haven’t earned any of her special-occasion dishes,” I say. “But it is the everyday meal that she makes best. So it’s sort of a fuck you with a side order of you better be impressed.”
“That about sums it up. Hearing about your wedding plans via the neighborhood gossips rubbed her the wrong way.” Dad scratches at his short beard. “But she does make amazing meatballs.”
“I was hoping she might have had a little time to calm down,” says Alistair as the hope fades from his eyes.