Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 67046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
I think she’s done, but she’s just pausing for a breath.
“I don’t have a team of people to handle this shit for me, Noah—no publicists or PR person. I’m 22 and I’m selling baseball cards to pay the rent on my office space which I’ll probably be sleeping in next week. So honestly? It was really shitty for you to ignore me.”
“Neither do I,” I argue, knowing it’s a half-truth. The team has someone, but I do not, because why the fuck would I?
Miranda skewers me with a dagger like gaze. “Don’t you go there.”
“Sorry.” My bad.
“The point I’m trying to make is that you ignored me and I want to know why. Trace said you missed me, but if you missed me, why would you avoid me?”
I busy myself with a sip of water, swallowing hard. Wipe my mouth with the back of my hand to buy a few more seconds to think. Then, “I don’t know. You’re right, it was a shitty thing to do.” I uncurl myself from the deck chair and rise, cross the foot or two between us, and kneel next to her lounger. “I don’t know, but I’m sorry. It was stupid—I panicked. The whole thing freaked me out, especially since you were involved.” I take her face in my hands—her beautiful, shocked face. “It’s one thing for them to trash me in the news, but it was another thing to see you trashed. I didn’t know how to handle it and I let you down.”
Her eyes are huge, brows raised into her hairline.
Mouth an O of wonder.
“I’m sorry.”
I brush her cheeks with the pads of my thumbs before releasing her face, head dipping to her lap, forehead pressed against her smooth legs.
Miranda’s fingers rake through my hair, brushing gently. She doesn’t tell me it’s okay. She doesn’t say, That’s alright. She doesn’t say it because we both know it wasn’t okay, and it wasn’t alright, and whoever raised her raised her right.
Miranda knows her worth and she’s not going to placate or make me feel better when we both know I screwed up.
“Don’t do it again” are the words that come drifting toward me, even as her hands stroke my neck. It’s not a threat, but it’s enough to let me know she means business.
My fingers drift along the smooth skin of her legs, the calloused pads on the bottoms making her shiver. I kiss her thigh, shifting so I can kiss the skin of her knee. Her calf. Higher again, inching back up the way I came, drinking in the smell of her skin.
I leave one of my giant hands spread on the inside of her thigh, below the hem of her denim shorts, her intake of breath a good indication that if she was mad before, she isn’t any longer.
“You smell good.”
“You’ve mentioned that before.” Her tone is teasing and I look up, into her face. “But do go on—what else do you like?”
Cheeky little shit. “You have the softest skin.” I could touch it for days. “And I like this spot right here.” My thumb strokes along the sensitive area inside her thigh, the skin a little lighter there where the sun doesn’t reach.
Trail the thumb farther, inside her shorts.
Suddenly wish she was naked. “Do you want to go swimming?”
Miranda laughs. “I don’t have a suit.”
“So?”
We stare at each other then, she to gauge my sincerity, me to gauge if she wants to get naked.
Her eyes scan the hedgerow of tall cypress trees planted at the back of the property, running along the perimeter, as if determining how private the place actually is. I am separated from the house behind mine by their hedgerow, their fence, and their pool house.
“I’ve had my mouth on your pussy,” I blurt out. “It’s not like you have to be modest.”
Miranda stares at me, wide-eyed, as if she can’t believe the words that just came out of said mouth. If we’re being honest, I can’t believe it either. I’ve never said shit like that to a woman before and immediately regret it.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
She moves to get off the chair and I go back on my haunches, still kneeling next to her as she says, “No. You’re absolutely right and it is really hot out.”
Without another word, she reaches for the hem of her tucked-in shirt, pulling it free from the shorts, and yanks it up over her head, tossing it to the deck chair.
Looks down at me. “Well? Let’s go. Get naked.”
I scramble to stand, like an amateur, the dick inside my pants twitching. Down, boy, down. Relax.
Except—it’s been a long time since anyone stripped naked in front of me (strip clubs do not count) and watching Miranda peel one layer after another from her body has me gawking like a teenage boy.