Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Nope. Not doing it.
Everyone else goes to dance—that is, except Ashton, who’s also stayed in his seat.
“That won’t do,” Gala says. “The two of you have to get out there.”
I shake my head as a slow song starts playing.
“Please, Kendall.” Emma’s grandmother appears at my elbow to bat her eyelashes at me. “Just this one dance? Emma wants everyone to have a good time.”
“Grandma, it’s fine!” Emma calls from the dance floor.
Shit. Everyone is looking at me and Ashton instead of at the bride and groom. This is precisely what I didn’t want to happen. Ashton must be on the same wavelength because he stoically gets up and makes his way over to my table.
“Care to dance?” he drawls, extending his hand to me.
I don’t exactly have a choice now, do I?
Clenching my teeth, I place my hand in his and do my best to ignore the sparks racing up my arm as he leads me to the dance floor.
Once we reach our destination, he pulls me to him, and air whooshes out of my lungs as we end up in the classic slow-dance position: his left hand holding my right, his other hand on the bare skin just below my shoulder blades, and last but not least, his erection against my belly.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I whisper so that only he can hear.
He leans down, and his lips brush my ear as he whispers back, “This is a slow dance. I’m holding you in a traditional style. What else did you expect me to do?”
“I expected you to have the decency to get rid of that,” I whisper-hiss, keeping my voice even quieter as I direct my glare to the offending appendage.
“My apologies, fashionista. Whenever you’re around, I have very little control over that.”
That’s a compliment, right? Same as if I told him that his proximity is making my nipples pebble, and my—
No. Must think unsexy thoughts, like a wedding cake stuffed with sardines, pickles, and spicy mayo. Or a bowl of worms with spaghetti sauce. Or a room full of zombies that have spinach in their teeth.
Nope. Doesn’t work. The more we sway to the music, the more I want to strip that tux from Ashton’s shoulders and—
The slow song stops. Ashton gently releases me and steps back, his expression unreadable.
Damn him and damn this stupid dance. Now I miss his touch, and that’s insane.
“Thank you, I’m going to my seat now,” I say loudly enough for Ashton—and more importantly, Emma and her grandmother—to hear. “I’m starving.”
Ashton nods mockingly. “I understand. I’m ravenous myself.”
Nostrils flaring, I turn on my heel and stride back to my seat, feeling very proud not to have yelled or otherwise created a scene.
The problem is, I’m still too turned on to enjoy the rest of the evening. I can’t even properly taste the wedding cake that the chef made to look like the chandelier hanging above us. All I can do is sneak glances at Ashton and curse myself for being so susceptible to a good-looking—okay, make that gorgeous—asshole.
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” Gala says after the cake is distributed. “The newlyweds can’t seem to wait to start their married life, so they’re headed for their bedroom.”
Emma blushes crimson, Marcus grins, and everyone makes inappropriate jokes, even Emma’s grandparents.
As the happy couple head down the corridor toward the master suite, the band starts playing one of Tierre’s favorite songs by AC/DC: “You Shook Me All Night Long.”
Chapter 18
Ashton
After the newlyweds leave, the reception winds down. Emma’s grandparents leave next, followed by a few of the younger guests. Since I’m staying here at the mansion, I don’t rush to my room. Instead, I chew the lamp from the chandelier cake and ponder an important question: Why do boner pill commercials tell you to visit the ER if an erection lasts longer than four hours? I hope that directive only applies after you’ve taken a boner pill. Because when I’m around Kendall—which I have been for more than four hours today—I’m hard almost all the time, so if I’m doing some permanent damage to my dick, it would be nice to know that.
Speaking of Kendall, she gets up from her seat, says farewell to a bunch of people, pointedly ignores me, and heads out, hips swaying from side to side, sending even more blood to my dick.
Fuck. Me. Why do I have this reaction toward the one woman who’s gotten it into her head to hate me? Is this some sort of fetish?
Just as I’m about to throw caution to the wind and follow her out, I hear a soft feminine voice say, “Hi,” yanking my brain back to reality.
I turn and see that it’s the photographer/MC, except she’s not holding the camera or the mic.
“Hey.” I scooch my chair deeper under the table to hide my Kendall-induced erection. “What’s up?”