Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 138522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 554(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 554(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
I gently lift his arm and set it on his hip and already I feel the cold spot where he once touched me and no longer does. His hands on my body give me so many feels, I don’t even know how to decipher what they mean. He unravels me. He undoes me. He puts me right back together in all kinds of crazy ways. I gently untangle my legs from his but right as I start to roll, he catches my legs, and his arm wraps around me. Despite myself, I smile, warmth spreading through me.
“You aren’t leaving,” he murmurs, dragging me against the hard lines of his naked body.
“I have to pee,” I say. “Really. I need to go to the bathroom.”
“That doesn’t mean leave,” he replies, nuzzling my neck. “I’m not done with you and you aren’t done with me.” He kisses my neck. “Agreed?”
“Yes. Agreed.”
He releases me and this time I’m even colder than last. This time I’m bothered in ways I wasn’t before. I scoot off the bed and stand up, naked but hidden in the dim lighting. I rush toward the room I believe to be the bathroom and when I get there I flip on the light and stop in my tracks.
“When will we be done with each other?” I ask, the word “done” taking me back to divorce and pain. I regret the question he can’t possibly answer, and I don’t wait for a reply. I enter the bathroom and shut the door, leaning on the hard surface.
When will we be done with each other? What kind of stupid question was that? What am I doing with this man? I told him we’d end after one night and I just asked him that question. I’m officially losing my mind. I’m losing my sanity over this man and I really wish it didn’t feel so damn good. Too good. I need to leave before he ends up under attack by my ex and I end up saying something else stupid.
I shove off the door and do what I came in here to do and then while washing up, I catch my image in the mirror. I look like a horror show, mascara zombie–fied under my eyes. I’m a freak show. I really am. My hair is wild. My body is all loose-limbed and sated like it hasn’t been—well, maybe ever. No one has ever made me feel like I do with Gabe.
I’m about to try to wash my face when there’s a knock on the door. I decide, screw it, I’m a zombie and I don’t care. I walk to the door and when I open it, Gabe’s standing there, his arm over his head on the doorframe, completely naked and perfect. So very perfect. The man, the muscles, that tattoo of the lion. The light stubble on his square jaw. “Right now,” he says, his voice this gravelly, sexy affected murmur, “I can’t imagine ever being done with you, and I don’t even know what to do with that.”
I suck in air that lodges in my throat. “Gabe,” I whisper.
“Tell me you feel it, too.”
I do. God, I so do, but to tell him that, to say that I feel what he says he feels, assures he stays in my life, at least long enough to gain attention from the wrong people. “I can’t—”
He drags me to him. “Don’t answer based on your ex-husband. I’m the only man in this room. Answer without thinking about him. Answer thinking about me. Do you—”
“Yes,” I breathe out. “Yes, and it scares me.”
“The only thing I’m afraid of is what you make me feel. Not him. Not ever.”
He’s afraid of what I make him feel?
He strokes my hair from my face. “I’m going to make sure you’re not afraid of him, either.” He kisses my temple and his lips linger there, in this tender, erotic, perfect way that is perhaps the best moment of my female life. It’s not anything I’ve ever experienced. Like he cherishes me and he barely knows me. Now I agree with him. I don’t know what to do with what he makes me feel.
“Come back to bed,” he says, walking backward and linking our hands until we’re back under the covers and he’s wrapped around me again. Perfectly wrapped around me. “You’re the only woman who has ever been in this bed,” he whispers.
The only woman.
He’s never been married.
And yet he’s perfect.
“You can’t be this perfect,” I accuse. “You’ve never been married. What don’t I know?”
He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t immediately reply. I can almost feel the tension radiate through him. “And your ex, who married you and fucked around on you—he’s perfect because he’s been married?”
I feel those words like the cut I delivered him, and guilt overwhelms me. I was unfair. I roll and face him, my hand settling on his jaw. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I just meant—”