Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56672 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56672 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
“I am. It’s been a lot of years, Josie.” Intense gray eyes hit me, and I look at Trace Gaines, my ex-boyfriend’s father, a man who I have no business being around. That book should be shut, firmly closed, never to be opened again. Except here I stand, in front of the man who I still imagine when I’m in bed while using my toy, going so far as to think of him when I’ve been with past lovers. After a few times of faking an orgasm, I was done trying to think of anyone except the very man standing in front of me. The one who is currently growling beneath his breath. And bringing Trace up was the only way to orgasm; it was either that or fake it.
“What are you doing here? How is this possible? This is a dream, right? That’s it. This is an alternate reality.” I question myself, the sight in front of me, and my sanity. No way this is happening. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d see Trace Gaines ever again.
“Yeah, babe. I’m here, and I’m real.” His voice is laced with hunger, a predator prowling toward its prey, and he’s firmly locked on me. “You always answer the door soaking fucking wet, Josie?” My body is a traitorous thing, betraying me at the hunger his tone exudes, the way he takes one step forward, my feet shuffling backwards, hands going to my waist. A tremble rolls through me.
“Trace.” I’m trying not to give in, not allow him to control the situation, and yet the whimper that leaves me is all to telling. I clear my throat, leaving the soft, meek, ‘ready to roll over and let the man in front of me have his way’ woman, and respond, “I am not soaking wet.”
“Got a white shirt, no bra, and hard nipples that say otherwise, Jo.” Trace’s head dips lower, voice skating along the shell of my ear as he takes the opportunity to tighten his grip on my hips, thumbs rolling over my lower midriff. “What the fuck is that noise? Is that water?” I turn out of his grasp and look at the arch of the water shooting from the faucet.
“Shit.” I take off running to get another towel from the drawer, but it doesn’t do a bit a good with the other one that’s now soaking wet and slipping from the makeshift wrap. I try to at least keep it from flooding the floors, unwilling to contemplate the plethora of towels it would take to sop up the mess.
“Woman, move,” Trace demands, pushing me out of the way as I continue keeping my hands on the faucet with the towel beneath it. I watch as he disappears, dipping low, opening the cabinet. Then I hear the echo of, “Motherfucker,” unsure if it’s whatever he’s working on beneath the sink or the way he moves causing me to spread my legs on either side of his broad shoulders. Trace does something, and the water finally slows down. My hands loosen their hold, and finally, the only water that’s on is the trickling from the soaking wet towel. What I’m not expecting is Trace backing out of the cabinet and feeling one calloused palm wrap around my ankle. I look down, watching him the entire time, his thumb sliding along the inside, there for a moment then gone in the next.
“You’re going to need a new faucet.” I’m still in a stupor when he stands up and appears in my peripheral vision. Unlike me, he’s not wet, but he is one gorgeous male specimen, baseball hat discarded, hair looking like a set of fingers have run through it more than once today. It has me wishing it was me tunneling my fingers through his dark locks. “You hear me, Josie?”
“Yeah. Along with the other gazillion things this place needs.” I turn around, crossing my arms over my chest, trying to conceal the free peep show I’ve already given Trace. “Thanks, by the way. I clearly need to learn a thing or two about this whole home stuff.” My gaze casts around the kitchen. The boxes that read Kitchen, to be loaded into the cabinets, are gone. After almost losing a foot, I decided to repack what wasn’t a necessity and call it a day. I drag my toe along the terracotta kitchen tiles, definitely not original to the home, but I love them just the same, and I’m hoping to keep them intact.
“It’s a learning curve. You bought a fixer upper. I was in your shoes before. Only a matter of time until it’ll be where you want it.” I look back up at him, unsure of where to guide this conversation. Do I address the giant elephant in the room, or do I bring up the estimate for my kitchen that’s slowly draining my savings account by the minute?