Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Holy fuck.
She’s asking for a kiss.
Which means…I wouldn’t be stealing it this time since she’s giving it.
I’m not a professional athlete for nothing. When I spot an opening, I go for it. I close the distance between us, cup her cheek, hold her face. I pause, but not because I’m hesitating—because I want her to feel the anticipation. To crave my kiss.
Maybe even to beg for it.
I slide my thumb along her cheekbone, stroking her soft skin. Her eyes pop. I run my thumb back down, along her chin. When her breath catches, I wait a little longer, then murmur in a low, but commanding tone, “Ask for it.”
She shudders. “Kiss me,” she pants out, desperate, needy.
I brush my lips to hers, but the instant we touch, I can’t hold back. I clasp her face in both hands, taste her mouth, and kiss my best friend in a whole new way.
It’s a soulful, lingering kiss that thrums deep in my bones. She’s soft in my arms, her breath gusting across her lips. A whimper crosses them too, and it sounds like a plea for more.
I want to swallow all her sounds, let them lead me on into the night.
Because they are not platonic.
They are not friendly.
They are unbearably sexy and needy.
Maeve Hartley tastes incredible, and this kiss rattles through my entire body, touching every damn corner of me. I don’t let go. As I kiss her more deeply, I’m struck with a cold, new clarity. It wasn’t merely affection I felt all along. It wasn’t simply lust either. It’s a whole lot more than basic attraction.
I’m wildly, annoyingly obsessed with my best friend.
Otherwise known as…my wife.
14
BET IT ALL ON RED
Maeve
What even was that? Have I ever been kissed like that? Is that what epic kisses are like?
For a while, I thought I had studied too many kisses in paintings. I figured I’d put too much stock in Francesco Hayez’s seminal work—The Kiss, where an unknown Italian man in a cape kisses a woman in a silvery-gray dress so passionately, I feel the kiss in my bones whenever I look at a reproduction of it. Or I assumed Roy Lichtenstein’s pop art depictions of women looking lost in deeply intimate kisses had cast a spell on me.
Now, I think I’ve had one of those kisses. And I don’t know how to go back.
As we head to the door of our chapel, dressed in our clothes again, Mrs. Matrimony gives me a motherly hug. “I’ll send you those pics soon, doll. You looked beautiful. And don’t ever forget—the key to a happy marriage is forgiveness and selective hearing,” she says.
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, but it’s hard to think about anything except the way my husband kissed me.
Once we exit the chapel though, the warm, heady atmosphere vanishes like smoke. We’re thrust into the chaotic night again, and I don’t know what to say. Seems he doesn’t either. We pass through the concourse quietly, then step into the bright casino, and the neon lights, the clinking of slot machines, and the hum of conversation try to slingshot me back into reality.
But I’m still several steps behind, caught up in my own painting kind of kiss. Has anyone ever consumed me like Asher? Has anyone ever wanted to? Not until tonight after I said I do.
Now, Asher’s hand is pressed on the small of my back, guiding me through the late-night crowds. Like he touched me when he led me to the front of the concert venue. He’s…touchy in a way that sends a message to others—a do not touch her message. I try to understand why by sneaking glances at him, like I can read what’s going on in his head. Was the kiss as good for him? Was it a Lichtenstein kiss? A Hayez kiss? I search his eyes, but instead of answers, I find more questions. It’s like he’s at war with himself. Or maybe frustrated? Annoyed with me?
My heart races with worry. He’s arranged this whole night for me—to give me a great time since I was feeling down. But the possibility that he’s annoyed or frustrated sends a twinge of guilt through my body.
The casino is alive, the noise and energy pulling us into its midnight embrace. But I’m not entirely comfortable with that look in his eyes, so I stop walking and turn to him.
“You okay?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual, to mask my worry.
“I’m great,” he says, stopping too, his tone…even. That’s all. Just even.
“Are you sure?” I press, needing to know.
“Yes,” he replies, but his expression almost seems resigned, like he’s wishing he didn’t feel whatever it is he’s feeling. Or perhaps he’s wondering what happens next too. Is there a guidebook for what’s to come after you temporarily marry your best friend as part of a pact? Do we sit down and work out the specific details of our annulment?