Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
“Yeah, lovebug. I got you.”
Lovebug.
Wow. Pretty sure an engaged man isn’t supposed to call his childhood sweetheart by his term of endearment for her when she’s drunk and naked against his chest.
Pain burns deep in my chest as she nuzzles her nose in my neck and breathes me in. Of course, my cock, who forgot we’re engaged, rages to life. He’s such a whore for her. If I’m honest, so am I, but I act like the perfect gentleman, easing her under the stream of water. She whimpers as the spray hits her, and I try to keep her head out of the water since I don’t want her hair to be a mess in the morning. I hold her tightly against me as I wash her body, using the wall to brace her as I move the loofah all over her body. When I look down, my boxers are tented and I feel myself leaking for her, but I continue to make quick work of getting her clean.
Meanwhile, Emery is none the wiser, practically passed out.
I chuckle to myself as I pick her back up and shut off the water. I get out, wrapping her in a towel before heading back to her room with another towel to lay on the bed so I can dry her off. Once I have her settled, I dry her off before using the damp towel to clean her face free of vomit, tears, and makeup.
Fuck, why does she have to be so goddamn stunning?
I stare at her for longer than I need to, but thankfully, I don’t allow myself to touch her. Instead, I take in the curve of her cheek, the angle of her jaw, the thickness of her lips. I keep staring until I know it’s creepy, and then I move to get a pair of PJs. I grab a pair of panties and a large Assassins Tee. It isn’t until I see the number 6 on it that I realize it’s my dad’s number. I check the size, and then I see the QA written in black marker on the tag.
This is my shirt.
I side-eye her, but I can only chuckle. I’m sure if I looked, I would find a lot of my shirts in there. She had a habit of stealing them, so I shouldn’t be surprised. I move toward the bed before throwing the shirt over her exposed chest. I can only handle looking at those perfect breasts for so long. I take the panties and guide them up her legs, but before I can move my head away to keep from gaping at her pussy, I notice a tattoo on her inner thigh that she didn’t have before.
It’s small.
Just five letters in a curvy script.
Quinn.
My mouth dries up, my heart slams into my ribs and I feel light-headed all of a sudden. Why does she have my name tattooed on her thigh? I swallow hard, and unable to resist, I rub the pad of my thumb along the exposed flesh of her thigh. It’s so close to her pretty bare pussy, it wouldn’t take much to caress her, but I don’t.
I continue to stare at my name on her skin.
When did she get this?
Why?
Fucking hell, why does my heart ache?
When she whimpers and starts to roll toward her pillow, the motion breaks my trance, and I quickly pull her panties up and then put her shirt on. I lift her to the top of the bed, covering her up quickly because I gotta get the fuck out of here. Once I have her all tucked in, I go get a bottle of water and a bottle of aspirin for her. When I come back, she’s snoring lightly, cuddled deep into the bed. I set everything on the nightstand and then allow myself to do something I know I shouldn’t.
I kiss her temple, letting my lips linger against her warm skin as I breathe her in.
“Thank you.”
My eyes fly open, but she still appears asleep, even though I know I heard her whisper the words. I swallow thickly, grazing her cheek with the back of my hand before I force myself to leave her. I walk to my room, my cock so hard it hurts, and my mind is so fucked, I don’t know what’s up and what’s down.
But I do know she’ll tell me why she has my name on her thigh.
And only time will tell if I survive it.
Chapter
Seventeen
Emery
“How in the world did you get him to wear that shirt?”
I beam widely as I look over at where Quinn is leaning against the counter, his hair in waves brushed over his forehead and his very incredible T-shirt, reading “Even Baddies get Saddies” and showing a shirtless Joe Jonas, crying on the side of the yacht. Quinn has on snug jeans and his worn black Converse, looking all kinds of adorable. He raises a shoulder, hiding a smirk. “I like it. I’m a Joe fan.”