Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 139259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
“Do we have a deal?” She holds out her hand.
“Another deal.” I wink.
“Oh, shut it.” She shakes her head. “Yes or no?”
I hesitate for a second, then step forward and shake her hand. Her skin is warm against mine, and I forget how to let go.
“Deal,” I say finally, my voice quieter than I intended.
She pulls her hand back quickly, clearing her throat as she stands. “Good. Now, let’s figure out where to put my stuff.”
After unpacking her bag and finding room for her things in my closet (barely), we settle into an awkward rhythm.
I sit on the edge of the bed, watching as she arranges her toiletries on the small desk by the window.
“This feels like something you would see in a movie about summer camp,” she mutters, lining up her travel-size bottles of shampoo and lotion. “I never went, so I wouldn’t know, but I imagine it like this.”
“Except at camp, you don’t usually have to share a bed with your bunkmate,” I point out.
She glares at me over her shoulder. “Oh, yeah, well, don’t remind me.”
I laugh, leaning back on my hands. “Relax, Hex. It’s just a bed.”
“A bed we’ll be sharing for lord knows how long while we hide away from the press,” she says, turning to face me. “This is your fault, you know.”
“My fault?” I say, feigning offense.
“Yes,” she says, crossing her arms. “If you hadn’t dragged me into this whole farm hideout plan, I’d be at home in my perfectly comfortable apartment, in my perfectly comfortable bed.”
“Where the paparazzi would still be camped outside your door,” I point out.
She sighs, her shoulders sagging. “Okay, fine. You’re right. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“Fair enough,” I say, standing and walking over to her. “But hey, look on the bright side.”
“What bright side?” She narrows her eyes.
“At least my mom likes you.” I grin. “That’s more than I can say for most people I’ve dated.”
Her cheeks flush, and she looks away, pretending to straighten a bottle of lotion. “One, it sounds like you’ve never brought a woman home before . . . and two, that’s because your mom doesn’t know the full story.”
“Maybe.” I lean against my desk. “Or maybe she just has good taste.”
She glances at me, and something unspoken passes between us.
“Well,” she says, breaking the silence. “We should probably get ready for bed.”
“Yeah. Good idea.”
“Are you sure this will work?” she asks.
“Nope,” I say, grinning.
She groans, climbing onto the bed and lying down on one side. “If you kick me in your sleep, I’m moving to the couch downstairs.”
“Noted,” I say, lying down beside her.
The bed creaks under our weight, and neither of us speaks. The room is quiet except for our breathing. “Thanks for coming here.” I turn my head to look at her.
“Thanks for bringing me.” She smiles at me, and my heart thumps in my chest. “Good night, Hudson.”
“Good night, Hex.”
72
Molly
He’s too close. Every move he makes, I feel. The steady inhale of his breath, the way his chest rises and falls, the warmth radiating off his body.
I’m supposed to be sleeping, but I can’t. Not like this.
This is torture.
His mom is a diabolical genius because, in this tiny bed, all I can think about is how much I want him.
The soft fragrance of his cologne filters through my nose like an aphrodisiac. It beckons me to cross the tiny space that separates us and do what I want.
And all I want to do is kiss him.
“I can hear you thinking over there,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing.
“No, you can’t,” I shoot back, even though my pulse betrays me. It’s hammering in my ears so loud he might actually be able to hear it.
“Sure, I can. It’s so loud, I wondered if I had a superpower and can read your mind.”
“You’re not funny.”
“Yet you said, ‘I do.’”
“Har, har. Go to sleep.”
“Whatever you want, Hex.”
I feel him shift, and before I can react, his arm wraps around me, pulling me closer.
Now, my head rests on his chest, and I can hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, slow and even.
This man does crazy things to me.
Be strong.
There is no having sex in his childhood bed with his parents down the hall.
Just as I’m about to turn over and try to scoot as far away as possible, he presses a soft kiss to the top of my head, lingering just a second too long, and my breath catches.
Calm down, girl.
Just because he kissed your head doesn’t mean he wants to—okay, maybe he does.
Because, at this exact second, I can feel his hand begin to trace a slow, deliberate path down my back, his fingers barely grazing my skin through the thin fabric of my shirt.
Okay, that means he does, right?
If I’m reading this right, he wants me. Now the question is, am I willing to risk his parents hearing just to feel him inside me right now?