Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“Mmm. That’s what I want to hear,” he says. Then he pulls back from my neck, tugs down my panties, and slides his hand inside. His fingers don’t touch me. He’s really sticking to his rules as he gives me the relief I seek.
He presses the buzzing vibrator to my aching bundle of nerves.
I grip his shirt harder, my legs like jelly, my stomach flipping. I’m moaning, sighing, melting into him.
Soon, it’s only the pulse of pleasure, the heat of my skin, the gravel of his words—words like yes, so fucking sexy, so hot, love it when you lose control.
Then I’m squeezing my eyes, my whole body shaking as pleasure blooms exquisitely, then shatters. I cry out. Maybe a yes, maybe his name, I don’t even know. It’s all just so, so good.
I’m floating on this orgasm high for a minute, or two, maybe more. Till finally, I come down.
He’s watching me, looking more pleased than any man has ever looked. But he also looks…hungry.
As he turns off the vibrator, I dart out a hand, cup the hard ridge of his cock over his jeans.
“Fuuuuck,” he mutters, slamming his free hand over mine, pressing it roughly against his straining erection.
“Let me,” I say plaintively, using his words against him.
He groans apologetically. A rumble that seems to come from deep within his dirty soul. Setting his hand over mine, he pushes, grips, strokes. Then, like it pains him, removes my hand and his. “We should go.”
I shake my head, frustrated but getting it. “It’s Elodie two, Gage zero though.”
He presses his forehead to mine. “I’d argue it’s Gage two, Elodie zero.”
I pull back. “Math isn’t that hard.”
“I like making you come. That’s what gets me off. That’s what I think about at night. That’s what I picture in the shower. Making you lose control.”
And I want to answer that with a kiss so badly—even though we really shouldn’t.
Quickly, we straighten up, pop into the restroom, then leave to head to the art studio. As we walk, his phone buzzes. He glances down, then clicks on an email with uncommon speed. His lips twitch while reading it, as if he likes the contents.
When he closes the email, he says, “Celeste will come to our opening night.”
“The landlord? For the place you want in the Marina?”
“Yup.”
I smile. “Told you so. I had a good feeling.”
“Well, nothing has happened yet,” he says, hedging against happiness.
“But it will.”
“Don’t count your chickens and all.”
I roll my eyes. “I know. I won’t. I’m just saying.”
He stops at the corner, eyes intense, maybe even a little hard. “I shouldn’t have done that back there.”
I blink, unsure what he means at first. Then, I’m far too sure. Already? He’s already regretting getting me off? It was his fucking idea.
I straighten my spine. Raise my chin. “It wasn’t you. It was the Plus One.”
His jaw ticks. He pauses, maybe absorbing the punch. “Right. Yup. That’s what I meant.”
“Good.”
“Yeah. Good,” he repeats, hollow.
We stop at the crosswalk, and I turn to him. My tone isn’t icy. It’s easy-breezy as I say, “It was just a mistake. It won’t happen again.”
He nods crisply. “I know. It won’t.”
“So there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Definitely. It’s all fine.”
“Everything is totally fine,” I say, even though I feel dirty.
That night there’s no text from him. I don’t text him either.
Sex complicates everything.
20
WTF
Gage
The next night at Sticks and Stones I mess up a drink order—switching an olive for a lemon twist in a martini—because I’m elsewhere. I’m in my head, wondering if I’m supposed to apologize to Elodie.
What would I even say? I mull that over as I remake the drink, then set it down for the customer, who then orders a sandwich and an app of warm olives and hummus.
“Coming right up,” I say, like my helpful attitude can erase the blunder, then I turn to the kitchen to place it when I bump into Zoe. The salad she’s carrying wobbles precariously on the edge of her tray then tumbles onto the floor.
I curse myself privately as I try to catch the bowl but I’m too late—the salad is the collateral damage…of me.
“Oh shoot,” Zoe mutters.
“Sorry. My bad,” I say.
“No, it’s fine. I got it.”
“I’ll clean it,” I say, insisting.
“It’s okay. Let me just have the kitchen redo it and I’ll clean it.”
“I really will get it. I’m just…” I swallow the words I’m distracted. Don’t need my employees knowing I’m unreliable right now.
As I hustle to the back of the house to grab a rag and straighten up, this is my reminder. This is why I don’t want to get close again. Because it leads to messes, to mistakes, to a lack of focus.
I face the same problem the next day, too, when I go to a fall softball practice with Eliza’s team and I’m hardly present. I’m the damn coach yet I’m lost in my head. Am I missing something with drills? With this scrimmage? With the batting practice? I feel like my brain is breaking. It’s split evenly between how to field a hard grounder and whether I messed up when I went cold the other day.