Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 84228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
I look at him now; he’s sitting with his back to the headboard and the sheet at his waist. His hair crazy from my hands and sleep, and he glares at me. “Itch?” He repeats the word, and it feels shitty hearing it from him.
“Well,” I say, getting up and standing in front of him, “we clearly”—I point at him and me—“you know.” Trying to make it less awkward since I’m the one doing the walk of shame, I say, “Had an itch.”
“So, you scratch it on my dick?” He glares at me, putting one hand over his head and another on his stomach. I’ll always remember this moment, him like that, the look of no cares in the world.
Throwing my hands up in the air, I say, “Don’t look at me like that. We both had an itch, and we scratched it.”
“The difference is that I didn’t need to ‘scratch an itch’,” he says, using his fingers to do air quotes. “I wanted to scratch that itch, and I wanted it with no one but you.”
“Tyler.” Hearing me whisper his name finally gets him out of bed, and I watch him make his way to me. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” he asks, standing in front of me. “Don’t say that I wanted this; don’t say that I wanted it with you? What exactly am I supposed to say?”
“You’re supposed to say, I don’t know, thank you for the best night of my life.” I look down, then up again. “Thank you for cockaberry fondue.”
“Yeah, and what if I said I wanted to do it again?” he asks me. “What if I told you that I want to scratch the itch, again . . . and again . . . and again?”
Cocking my hip to the side, I fold my arms over my chest. “Now?”
He cups my cheeks. “Now, later, tonight, in the middle of tonight, maybe tomorrow before we go running, then definitely tomorrow night.” He looks straight into my eyes. My chest is heaving and then the sound of my heartbeat fills my ears.
“That is a lot of scratching.” I place my hands over his. “What if Cassie comes in? What if—”
“Will it make you feel better if we did the scratching in your room?” The question stumps me. “Or we can go to your room, grab your workout stuff for tomorrow”—leaning in, he kisses me softly on the lips, my body doing a full sigh—“then after we run, I’ll come to your room to make sure you aren’t itchy, and then I’ll come back here, and we can, you know, scratch it again tonight.”
“Just so we are clear,” I say right before I give in, “we are still talking about sex, right?” My laughter is swallowed by his kiss.
Chapter Seventeen
Tyler
Looks like this in-demand actor was just caught sneaking out of his new love interest’s house. Sources say he fled the scene once the estranged husband showed up!
“Are you even listening to me?” Cassie asks from beside me as we walk out of the hotel toward our boat in Venice. “Your parents are in Paris.”
“Oh, good,” I say to her. After getting into the boat, I turning to hold out my hand to help her. “I spoke to Ryan today, and he thinks he can squeeze one more day in Paris before we fly back to New York.”
“More time with my parents.” I sit down, taking my phone out. “How long are we there for?”
“We leave Italy tomorrow,” she says, opening her phone, “then we are there for five days.” I watch her fingers move. “He is allowing the press and screening in one day, so the press gets a break. I heard that Alex will be coming.” She mentions France’s most eligible bachelor. He’s been in the press lately. Some good, mostly bad. I don’t mention that I know him, or that we’ve shared a couple of meals in the past.
I nod, thinking about the four days I’ll have off. It’s been four days since my relationship with Jessica flipped a bit. Actually, it flipped a lot. It’s been four days that we’ve woken together, going to the gym together. Today, I even held her hand, and she let me. She also knew that no one would be up, so it was safe. She goes out of her way to make it normal and make sure no one knows what is going on. After the first day, I convinced her to spend the night again, but Cassie banging on the door in the morning was her breaking point. So now I sleep in her room, and in the mornings after we work out, we head our separate ways until press time. We text during the day, though. She even has me under “Itch Scratcher,” so if I text her, no one knows. She actually took my phone and changed her name to “Berry Fondue.”