Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
“That scenario is quite specific.”
“And I have specifically lost my mind having you here! Having you over! Do have any idea how fucking old I am?!”
“Somewhere in your 30s,” Tate answers with so much confidence it ceases all my movements except for a concerned eyebrow lift. “I’ve seen your license, remember?”
Phew.
Cool.
You can’t just tell that shit from one look at my very lightly made-up face.
Fuck.
I probably should’ve put on more before I came prancing out here like a twenty-year-old having her first sexy slumber party.
Giving him an actual number for myself seems to be the right thing to do despite how much I don’t want it to be. “I’m thirty-five.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?” His lack of a lengthier answer causes me to squawk again. “Okay?! Just okay?! What does that mean?! You think I’m just on the cusp of being fucking ancient? I’m not ancient!”
“I never said you were.”
“You didn’t exactly say much!”
“Bella,” the man I am much, much too old for cautiously calls, diverting my thoughts away from the unhappy path they’re skipping down, “your age is the thing I care least about.”
“That makes one of us.”
He flashes me the very grin that got him here in the first place. “How can I make it two?”
Purring the question like that is a damn good start.
All of a sudden, my teeth quickly clamp down on my bottom lip to keep that answer tucked away out of his earshot.
“You are more than a race, more than an age, and more than a recently divorced single woman.”
“I don’t know that I would call me recently divorced…”
My attempt at humor is well-received by the way he lightly chuckles. “You’re sexy and brilliant and so captivating that I’m not sure how any man could ever let you walk out their life. And yet, I’m grateful that they have because you out of theirs, can mean you in mine, and there is not a single thing on this earth I want more.”
Any ability to breathe is successfully stolen.
“The question is,” his voice dips as his frame leans forward, “what do you want, Harper?”
There’s no stopping the response from slipping past my parted lips. “You.”
Tate gives his lips a slow, seductive lick. “Then come have me.”
Abandoning the dishes can’t possibly be done any faster. And regardless of how loud my mind screams to get my frame moving, it scientifically can’t move any quicker. Relocating from where I was to where I want to be takes what feels like an eternity, yet the second I’m standing in front of the man who seems incapable of losing his cool, it’s as though I’m right on time.
Like I’m exactly where I want to be.
Need to be.
In spite of his turned chair nature, he doesn’t reach out for me.
He doesn’t pull me to him.
There are no forceful actions that would contradict his previous proclamation.
I want him?
I have to take him.
Balling up the center of his grey t-shirt allows me the leverage I need to yank Tate’s lips to mine. The instant they crash together, body shaking moans are heard from us both. While I expect the collision to unleash some wild speed where one minute we’re vertical and the next we’re horizonal, I’m pleasantly mistaken. Instead, one hand gingerly cups my face. His thumb strokes my cheek. Our mouths part painstakingly slow forcing me to relish in every single intentional movement he makes.
That I make.
Desperation to taste what some would consider forbidden fruit – a man living in an entirely different decade of his life – is why there’s no reluctance for my tongue to swipe at his. Once. Twice. Twice more with much stronger urgency. All of sudden, Tate’s other hand latches onto the nape of my neck, tugging me against his hard frame, trapping the hand that was brave enough to reach out for him like it’s a prisoner of sexual war.
Maybe it is.
And maybe I don’t want it to be free.
His mouth continues its unhurried exploration of mine, rolling and licking and pressing in such an obsessive cycle I find myself forgetting to literally come up for air. The burning in my lungs pales in comparison to the one between my thighs, and it’s that fire, that need for an explosion that pushes me to risk passing out rather than part us.
Our inevitable breakage occurs when the well-built waiter that I can’t wait to serve me in other ways finally rises to his feet to move this thing forward. I anticipate his hand reaching for mine in a silent request for me to guide us elsewhere, but the gliding of his grip down my shoulders, around to my back, to slink along my spine redirects my expectations before erasing them entirely when I’m hoisted upward by the curve of my ass. “Quiero joderte.”
The gasp given as my body wraps around his is immediately taken into his possession by his mouth back on mine.