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)
I swallow past the dryness in my throat then scrub a hand along my jaw, taking this in. What she did with the mugs and the plants and the books—and most of all, the pictures. She made it a home.
But she’s not the only one who can play house.
I go downstairs, rifle through the packages I asked Maeve to bring in for me from the lock box, and find the one I’m looking for. I rip it open and grin, pleased.
Yep, this is perfect.
Maeve had the right idea with the wedding pictures. But I made a promise to her brother the other week, and mostly to myself, to look out for her. To protect her. To show the world that she’s fucking mine.
I ordered prints of some pictures of her, and had them framed. Photos from over the years, including the most recent one—a shot of her flipping me the double bird.
My personal favorite. I add them all around the house, setting down Quick-Draw Maeve in the T-shirt on my nightstand when my phone buzzes.
Maeve: Another hour or so. Save some mac and cheese for me!
I type absently, my mind elsewhere.
Asher: I will.
I’m not thinking of food because when I look at the photo of her once more, something clicks. Something she said when she gave herself that nickname back in Vegas. Something…demonstrative.
I know the perfect housewarming gift for my wife. I check the time. It’s nine. Not too late. We live in a big city that caters to all sorts of appetites around the clock. I google the hours of a nearby shop, then grin like a cocky fucker when I see it’s open till midnight.
I’m out of there in no time.
But traffic is a nightmare on Friday nights. It’s slow-going, and by the time I make it to the shop, Maeve’s texted me.
Maeve: Well, I checked everywhere and can’t find you. I can only conclude you’ve been kidnapped by aliens.
Shit. She beat me home. But as I’m grabbing the last item, I fire off a quick reply.
Asher: Back soon. Just needed to grab…something.
It’s vague, but I can’t spoil the surprise.
Maeve: Happy grabbing. Your wife is exhausted.
A jolt of tension hits me. I really hope she’s not overworking herself.
Asher: Get some rest, okay?
But there’s no response. And that’s good. Really, that’s good. I want her to get plenty of sleep. Once I finish the purchase, I hop back in the car, gift bag in hand. By the time I pull into the garage, it’s almost ten-thirty. No further replies from her. I bet she’s already hit the sack.
That settles some of my worries. I head inside, set the bag on the kitchen table, and make my way upstairs.
The lights are still on, and there she is—face-first on my bed, her bra next to her. But otherwise she’s still wearing her clothes—leggings and a sweatshirt. Her hair’s in a messy bun that’s coming undone.
Two thoughts slam into me at once.
First, she looks too damn good in my bed. Second, I’m stupidly thrilled she chose my bed, not the guest room, to sleep in. A third thought crashes down next. I hope she sleeps better than she ever has here at my house.
I turn around, head down the hall, and grab a blanket from the closet. When I return, I gently cover her. She sighs softly, murmurs something incoherent, and rolls over, her lips curving into a faint smile. Her eyes flutter open for a moment, heavy with sleep. I’m a little jealous, but also wholly happy for her. She needs it.
“Hi,” she says, but her lids don’t stay open for more than a second or two.
I’m not even sure she’s awake, but I sit down next to her. “Hey,” I murmur back, gently setting a hand on her shoulder.
“You look…nice,” she says with a dopey grin.
“So do you,” I reply, my voice low and rough.
“I was…thinking about…this,” she says, her words slow and slurred.
“About what?” I ask, dying to know what’s on her mind.
“Seeing you,” she says, almost in a dreamlike state.
“Yeah?” The tension inside me is near unbearable.
“Yeah. I dreamed…”
But she turns quiet. I wish she’d wake the fuck up and tell me what she dreamed about me. “Dreamed about what?” I ask, leaning in, ready to hang onto her every word.
But she doesn’t finish. Instead, her breath comes out in a soft, deep exhale. Her chest rises as her hand flutters to her chest, then glides down her body. Over her breasts. Down her belly. And just like that, the flames eat me alive.
Her hand slips between her thighs as she falls back into deep sleep.
There’s only so much I can take.
I grit my teeth, suppress a groan, and head straight to the bathroom. I’m naked in seconds, stepping under the shower, letting the hot water wash over me, imagining her here last night.