Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
I shift and lift her onto the worktop, moving between her thighs, smiling at my shirt drowning her as I skate my palms over the smooth skin. “I like your shirt,” I muse, pulling my hand back from the brink of meeting the apex of her thighs.
“Is it expensive?” she asks casually.
I raise my eyebrows, smiling darkly at her cheek. She knows it’s expensive. “Very.” But fuck the shirt. Let’s get down to business. “What do you remember about last night?”
She definitely withdraws, and it’s far too long of a delay before I get an answer. “You’re a good dancer.”
Talk about stating the obvious. But it’s not what I’m looking for. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for JT.” Moving on. “What else do you remember?” Come on, Ava. Give it to me. Don’t make me squeeze it out of you.
“Why?” she asks, looking at me in question. It makes me pause for thought. She really doesn’t remember?
I deflate. Well, that sucks balls. Okay, let’s try and clear something else up. “Do you remember seeing your ex?”
“Yes,” she virtually snarls, though I can’t be sure if it’s at me or him.
“Do you remember my request?”
“Yes.”
That’s good. It’s one less thing for me to worry about. But . . . back to the original matter. “And at what point do you draw a blank?”
Her body tightens in my hold. “I don’t remember getting home, if that’s what you’re getting at.” She’s defensive. Very defensive. “I do realize I was stupidly drunk and highly irresponsible.”
I couldn’t agree more. So I’ll take that as an indirect guarantee she won’t be drinking again. Glad we’ve cleared that up. It’s dangerous. And on top of that, she told me something groundbreaking and can’t fucking recall. “You don’t remember anything after the bar?” I ask, digging deeper, willing her to try hard and remember.
“No,” she sighs, glancing away. She’s not avoiding me. She’s embarrassed.
“That’s a shame.” So I guess I have to wait until she has that revelation when she’s sober. That’s another solid reason to not let her drink again. There are too many to ignore. I take her cheeks and drop a kiss on her lips. Dig deep, baby. Find those words. Because I really need to hear them again.
“How old are you?” she asks.
For the love of all things old. Age is but a number. So tell her, you colossal tit. Yet I can’t ignore the cautious part of my brain warning me to hold back on all the things that could potentially end this. So I do what I’m learning works for us. Kiss her. Consume her. Show her that nothing matters except how smitten I am. “Twenty-six,” I murmur, gently biting her lip, smothering her with my mouth and relishing her immediate softness.
“You missed twenty–five.”
“No, I didn’t. You just can’t remember asking me.” Right before you told me you love me.
“Oh. After the bar?”
I touch her nose with mine. “Yes, after the bar.” Her lips part, and I smile thoughtfully as I wipe the remnants of my kiss away. “You feeling better?”
“Yes, but you need to feed me.”
I laugh. “Are you making demands?”
“Yes. Get me my clothes.”
And now she’s gone too far. I make a play for her hip and squeeze, making her jerk on a gasp. “Who has the power, Ava?”
She laughs, squirming, wriggling, generally increasing her torture all by herself. My grip is solid. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about how much easier we’ll get along if you accept who holds the power.”
“You do,” she screeches, and I smile, satisfied.
“Good girl.” I haul her forward and reinforce it with a kiss. “Don’t forget it.” I break our connection, leaving her panting on the worktop, wanting more. Granted, I’m pretty pent-up myself, but depriving her is a tactic I’ll exercise when necessary. I head upstairs, adjusting my dick behind my jeans as I go, and retrieve her underwear from the wash basket in the bathroom, her shoes from the floor, before heading back down to fetch her dress from the washing machine.
When I arrive back in the kitchen, she’s still on the worktop, her cheeks still wonderfully flushed. Even if she’s got narrowed eyes pointing at me.
I scoff. “Don’t look at me like that, lady,” I warn, handing over her things, giving the dress a filthy look as I do. “You won’t be wearing that dress again, I can assure you.” I’ll cut it up to guarantee it. “Put the shirt over it.” My phone rings, and I leave her with the facts as I take Sarah’s call, wandering out onto the terrace.
“Morning,” I chirp happily.
“So he’s alive,” she quips.
More alive than ever. But I quickly remember that I’m not talking to her. “What do you want?”
“Where are you?”
I roll my eyes. She knows exactly where I am, and who I’m with. “Why are you asking questions to which you know the answers?”