Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
That’s what makes it meltingly sexy.
But I’m torn between sighing with pleasure and laughing my butt off as I push playfully at his chest. “Me? I’m sorry, which one of us is drunk again? Who is this man calling me Miss O’Hara-Lark and carrying me around? Do you actually sprout a sense of humor when you’ve had a few?”
“I am not drunk,” August clips. But there’s a twitch at the corners of his mouth that says if I push a little more, I might actually make this dour man laugh. He steps up onto the walk, his footfalls turning hollow with the space between the wood and the water. He looks down at me. “I’m just humoring the absolute madwoman I’ve invited into my life. Life is easier if I just don’t fight you.”
I grin, slipping my arms around his neck. “On the plus side, not fighting me means plenty more good photo ops. I bet someone’s getting an eyeful of headline-worthy shots right now.”
His sigh this time is more aggrieved. “There is that. I suppose you know that means I’ll have to kiss you at the door before carrying you across the threshold, fiancée.”
“Hey.” Just for that I catch a little hair at the nape of his neck and tug. “You don’t have to make kissing me sound like a chore.”
“Oh, that’s not what I meant, and you—” He splutters. “Did you just pull my hair?”
My grin widens. “Pulling pigtails. That’s what you do when you like a stubborn dumb boy, right?”
“I don’t think little boys wear pigtails, Elle.”
“I mean, it’s the twenty-first century. Some might.”
“You can stop pulling mine.” Snorting, he halts on the deck, just before the front door. His scowl eases, and his dark-blue gaze searches mine. “You truly don’t mind a moment of intimacy that should belong to a man you actually care for?”
If only I could be honest.
If only I could tell him I’m coming to care for him more and more every day, with every little detail I learn about him. Every kindness he shows me under that prickly exterior. Everything that makes him August, this grouchy idiot who doesn’t know how good a man he actually is because he’s been carrying someone else’s guilt for too long.
So I just tug lightly at his hair again to bring that hint of an exasperated smile back.
“A little kiss between strangers never killed anyone,” I tease, glancing over my shoulder toward the road. A few cars have passed, but I can’t exactly see anyone hovering in the bushes across the street. “Doesn’t it feel weird, though? Putting on an act for this unseen watcher. It’s kind of creepy knowing there’s someone looking at us right now. But it feels like a game too.” I look back at August and lean in close to him. “We’re spies,” I whisper. “Trying to fool enemy agents. So we have to make it good.”
August’s eyes crease with amusement.
“Everything is a story with you, isn’t it?” he whispers back, deliberately exaggerating the sound until I’m hard pressed not to giggle.
Even if we’re playing at being in love, the game is exciting.
“Makes it more fun,” I answer. “You going to kiss me, August?”
Please. Please kiss me, you lunk.
“You’re the one talking.”
I tell myself I’m imagining the husky, hot edge to his voice.
My smile fades.
Slipping one hand down his neck, I feel the beat of his pulse and press my fingertips to his lips. “So shut me up.”
For once, I get a real smile out of him.
Soft, slow, and curving against my fingertips, like he’s letting me feel how genuine and rare it is.
It melts his eyes until they’re sky blue.
“Such a damn brat,” he whispers.
Then, while my heart beats out of my chest, he shoves my fingers aside and bends to take my mouth with his.
It’s hesitant, at first.
I can feel him questioning himself, feel him holding back, but me—I’m all impulse and fire.
I want this too badly to make it careful and performative.
Just one kiss, I tell myself.
Just one kiss, and then I’ll make myself let this growing infatuation go.
I trace my fingers over his cheekbones, cradle his face in my palms, and lean up into him, turning that hesitant brush of mouths into something firmer and hotter, tilting my head until my lips fuse with his in perfect synchronicity.
Holy sparks.
For such a stern man, there’s a sinful sweetness to his lips that makes my gut bottom out with the sheer sensuality of how divine it feels to kiss August Marshall.
How it feels when our mouths give and take and chase until they find the perfect collision, and everything just clicks.
And how it feels when he kisses me back.
He stiffens, a sound of surprise melting between us.
Then it’s back and forth, trading the same sharp tension as the barbs we normally throw at each other. Only now they’ve turned from soft play into searing heat, all touch and wetness and wildness.