Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“Are you staring at me?” Matthew opens one eye and looks over at me.
“Um, no. Pfft, why would you ask that?” I fidget with the plastic cover on my latte and glance up at the ceiling, puckering my lips in a move that has gotten me busted numerous times in the past. My face heats up considerably, the shade: fuchsia. “I had something in my eye.”
He opens both eyes and stretches out, feet splayed broadly apart, hands going up behind his head, as if inviting me to gawk. “Go ahead, look your fill. Really, I don’t mind.” He spreads his legs wider still, the denim of his jeans pulling taunt against his impressive… um… you know.
Oh my god – I’ll be twenty three in May and I can’t even say it.
“Thanks, I’m good.”
“Cecelia, you were staring so hard I could feel it, even with my eyes closed. Admit it, you were undressing me in your mind.” He extracts himself from the chair and bends forward, resting his elbows on his knees and chin in his hands. “I could even feel it in my…” his eyes cast downward, back-and-forth a few times, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.
I lean over, giving him a playful shove, letting my now sexually charged fingers linger on his solid bicep. He grabs that hand, then the other, dragging me and the chair I’m sitting in to the apex of his thighs until we’re face-to-face. Inches apart.
Matthew raises my hands to his mouth, turning them both over and planting open mouth kisses to my sensitive palms and up my exposed wrists. His nose inhales the smell of my perfume, and as he nuzzles my wrists I shamelessly watch, spellbound.
His hands work their way up my arms, grazing my shoulders briefly before resting around the column of my slim neck. Matthew’s thumbs caress the underside of my jaw softly, the calloused pads branding me.
Involuntarily, my lips part. He leans forward, brushing his mouth against mine, our eyes closing. I breathe him in before our tongues mingle, my teeth nipping his pouty lower lip.
“Stop it Matt, we can’t do this here.”
“Do what? This?” He buries his nose in my temple, and I chuckle softly when he kisses the tender skin at the corner of each eye. “Why not?”
“You’re insane. People are starting to stare.”
“Fine. Then come home with me so we can be alone.”
May-day, May-day!!!! Code Red!
I hesitate, panicking a little.
This is only our first date and I am soooo not a hussy. I swear the guy is a mind reader because he says, “Cecelia, I... This might be our first official date, but… I’ve been courting you for weeks. Admit it. We’ve been dating since the day I stole your shitty, generic trail mix.”
Love and loathing.
“We’re both adults, and I think it’s safe to say…” he doesn’t finish his sentence.
“Safe to say… what?”
Matthew clears his throat, mildly uncomfortable with whatever it is he’s about to say. Actually, he looks slightly pale and constipated. “That we’re, um… going to be, um… committed to each other. Or am I reading you wrong?”
Committed; did he just say that out loud…?
Although my heart is beating wildly in my chest, I still manage to eye him skeptically, brows raised. “Are you just saying that to get in my pants?” Because it’s working.
He looks affronted, clutching his chest. “Why do you always ask me that?”
“Oh come on, I’ve only ever asked you that twice…”
“Okay… but – why are you asking me to begin with? I think you’d know me well enough by now.”
Honestly, we know there are several good reasons I’m not hastening to hop into Matthews’s truck and ride off into the sunset with him, and they are:
He’s leaving for California soon.
Technically, we just started “dating.”
He’s leaving for California soon.
That’s my nickel version, in a nut shell (but I have a sneaking suspicion he already knows this). In any case, it would be foolish of me to jump feet first into a physical relationship that’s only going to end in heartache – namely: mine.
We watch each other, my face still cradled in his hands, his thumbs still stroking the underside of chin. I tip my head to the side, marveling at the delicate touches his strong hands are capable of and the feel of them on my skin.
We probably look like love sick fools… and perhaps maybe we are.
“Cecelia. Tell me what’s wrong… and don’t say nothing.” Matthew’s sharp gaze searches my face for a sign of… something; this giant guy’s guy who, weeks ago, I didn’t think was even capable of human feelings let alone talking about them. Quite honestly it’s freaking me out a bit, this bizarre parallel universe we’ve entered where the guy is throwing out words like committed and voluntarily talking about his feelings… On. Purpose.
Macho.
Stubborn.
Conceited.
Arrogant. Prideful. Sarcastic. All words I’d use to categorize Matthew Wakefield. I’ve had them filed away for so long – using them as an excuse so I don’t get attached - that sensitive, caring, and faithful haven’t registered with me.