Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
I track his progress into the bathroom where I hear the medicine cabinet open and close before he returns to the bedroom. He tips two pills into his hand, then pours me a glass of water from the bottle on the tray. He hands it to me. “What muff?” he asks.
“I’m not thirsty,” I say, getting back up to go to the window.
“Sit,” he commands, hand on my shoulder helping me to do just that even though I resist.
“You should consider getting a dog.”
“A dog? Why?”
“You like to give orders. You can teach a dog to obey them. Can’t teach a wife that. Not this wife, at least.” I hear how I sound, how my words are slurred. I’m apparently waving a finger at him, which is meant to be accusing, but my arm is too floppy. I give in and sit back down because the room is definitely spinning now.
He takes my hand, brings that finger to his lips, and kisses it, which catches me completely off guard and has me staring up at him, mute.
“I don’t want a dog. I like little kitties better,” he says, looking at me through his lashes, which I notice not for the first time are very thick, so thick I’m almost jealous. “One drunk Little Kitty, in particular. Here.” He holds out the aspirin.
I look at the palm of his hand, then up at him. “I’m not drunk.”
“No, of course you’re not. Take these or you’re going to have a monster of a headache tomorrow. Although maybe you deserve it.”
I sigh, take the pills from him, and pop them into my mouth, then drink a sip of water. He seems satisfied and sets the cup aside.
“What muff?” he asks again.
I study him and think. He is really quite handsome with his olive skin and dark hair, which would curl if he’d let it grow. I get the feeling that like his closet, he likes to keep a tight rein on that, too. Even the five o’clock shadow is maintained to perfection, accentuating the sharp edge of his jaw just so. I reach out to touch the scruff of it, remembering how it felt between my legs.
The thought takes me a minute to process, and I have to blink and force my eyes to focus. “What were we talking about?” I ask him and see the smile he’s trying to suppress. “Are you laughing at me?”
“Now why would I do that?” he asks as I stand and reach out to grab hold of his arm to steady myself, very aware of how strong he is and how good that bicep feels. I bring my other hand to his other arm, study the expanse of his chest, then trail my fingers over the muscle there. He stands still, sucking in a breath as my fingers slide over hard abs, but when I hover them just over his slacks, he catches my hands.
He groans, and I see the press of his erection against his slacks. The sight of it makes my sex clench. I shouldn’t want him—certainly not now. I’m still sore.
“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he says, tone dark.
I look up at him. “What makes you think I can’t finish? Besides, I didn’t get to see you.”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
“I’ve been thinking—” I start.
“Have you?” he asks.
“Don’t interrupt me.” One corner of his mouth quirks, but he controls it and gestures for me to go ahead. “I’ve been thinking. We’re enemies, you and me.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Yes. We have to be.”
“Why?”
That throws me off. Why? Why do we have to be enemies? “You’re an Augustine, and I’m a De Léon. That makes us natural enemies.”
He smiles, releases my wrists, and leans close to tilt my chin up with one finger. “You’re an Augustine now, remember?” He pokes the tip of my nose. “And very cute when you’re drunk, you know that?”
“I’m not…” I stop, take a deep breath in, and close my eyes for a minute so the spinning slows.
“Go on. What were you going to say?” he asks.
I nod, but when I open my mouth to speak, I hiccup again. He turns away, so I don’t see him stifling his chuckle, but I can hear it. I grit my teeth and push one hand into his pants, grip his erection, and squeeze. That definitely gets his attention. And he’s not laughing.
“Madelena,” he starts, voice a growl. He takes hold of my wrist in a half-hearted attempt to pull me off. “You’re drunk, sweetheart, and probably more than a little sore.”
“Sweetheart?” I get caught on the term of endearment, losing the already fraying thread of my thoughts. I squeeze tighter and hear his sharp hiss of breath.
“I won’t take you again tonight.” He pulls my hand off him, but it’s not without effort.