Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 63444 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63444 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
I find myself opening up to her more and more, telling her things I’ve never shared with other women. No one knows about my artwork. Only those closest to me. Yet, I’ve shared that part of myself with her.
Posey shakes her head dismissively. “I let Bane’s assistant pick the flowers.”
“Really?” I move to sit next to her on the couch. “I thought women enjoyed planning their weddings.”
Posey’s blue eyes widen. “Oh, I do. Just not the flowers, I guess.”
“With a name like Posey, I’d think you’d hold posies as you walk down the aisle.”
Her eyes light up. “I’d love something as simple as that.”
“You should tell Bane that’s what you want. A man wants their bride to be happy on their wedding day.”
Posey picks at a nail. “Yeah, maybe I will.”
I need to tell her we have to stop texting. It’s nearly on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t know how to say it. I don’t want to say it.
Fuck. I want to keep texting her all day and night, but it needs to stop.
“About your text,” I start, but she holds up a hand to stop me.
“I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked to see your tattoos.”
I study her, my previous thoughts falling away in an instant. “Do you want to see them?”
She nods as she licks her lips, and I nearly lose my resolve and almost pull her onto my lap. “Yeah,” she whispers.
“Your wish is my command.”
Chapter 10
Posey
Ledger Thorne is a vibe. Tall, dark, and quiet. Haunted eyes. Hidden secrets. And out-of-this-world handsome.
The air thickens between us as he rises from the couch, tension palpable in the silence. He strides to the middle of the room, each step deliberate, and I hold my breath in anticipation of what’s to come.
When I asked to see the artwork on Ledger’s chest, I never thought he’d actually take off his shirt for me. The dim light casts shadows across him. Giving him my full attention, I wait with bated breath for his next move.
He raises a dark brow, tugging at his white button-down. He pulls it from his pants and places his hands on the bottom button.
Am I drooling?
My eyes are glued to his every movement. There’s a soft tune flitting through the air, making this moment even more sexual than it already is. He undoes the first button, and I nearly come unglued.
My heart’s beating frantically in my ribcage, begging to be freed. This man is a god. A sinful god, put on this earth to tempt me. And he’s doing just that as he undoes another button, working his way up slowly.
I clench my thighs together, desperate to quench the hunger growing there. Time stands still as he moves in slow motion.
I’m eager to see more as his lower tummy comes into view. A six-pack unlike anything I’ve ever seen with a patch of dark hair traveling down below his trousers. It’s glorious, and I hold my breath as he continues unbuttoning.
It’s tortuous. The gleam in his dark eyes fixates on me, and I don’t know where to look. It’s sensual, having all his attention on me as he removes his shirt.
Is this how men feel when women strip for them? Because I’m not sure how much more of this I can handle.
Sure, I want to see his artwork, but at what cost? Because this is insanely provocative. Enticing. Seductive. And every other word I can think of for erotic—salacious, sinful, titillating, naughty, risqué, racy, spicy, and so many more.
My heart is in my throat. My skin’s on fire.
He keeps going, unbuttoning each button at an agonizingly slow speed. “Is this what you want?” his deep voice husks out. It’s throaty. Needy. He sounds as desperate as I feel, and he raises a dark brow.
His chiseled jaw is set in stone, giving nothing away as to how this is affecting him. His deft fingers make quick work of the last few buttons, and a glorious masterpiece peeks at me from behind the white material.
He pushes the shirt off his shoulders, and it falls in a silent heap to the floor.
Wow.
I’m breathless.
I’m left here, gawking at so much skin covered in ink. I rise from the couch slowly, inching my way closer. I stare at his tattoos. The skull covering his right pec, and the heart on his left. I move as if on autopilot, closer to him, in a trance from all the ink.
“You designed these?” I ask in a breathy whisper.
He glances at the ink sprawled all over his skin and back at me. “Yeah.”
I’m standing so close to him that I could reach out and touch him. God, I want to touch him. I want to trace my finger over the black lines of each drawing. I want to lick a path from his navel to his neck.