Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
He lifts his glass back to his mouth, and I’m entranced until he lowers it back to the table. Has he been running his fingers over the rim this whole time? If so, why do I only now feel that same caress like he’s swirling that thick tip on the inside of my thigh?
“Are you denying it?” I shove his shoulder, and he either lets me move him a few inches or he’s wasted.
“No.” His grin widens. “Brooks is quite popular. Quinten doesn’t ever have trouble finding fun.”
“What about you?” I empty my glass, filling it once again with the bottle the bartender left at our table to hide my embarrassment.
“Me?” He runs his hands over the scruff on his chin, but I can tell from the look in his eyes that he’s actually considering the question and not rubbing himself there in that douchebag way college frat guys do right before they wink at you and say something ridiculous like, “Bet.”
“I don’t do relationships.” His tongue snakes out, sweeping over his lips before he looks back to the front entrance to the bar. “Not really my thing.”
“I bet you just haven’t found a woman you’re sexually compatible with.” My eyes widen. Did I really just say that to this man?
He doesn’t answer, and the alcohol swimming in my system tells me that now isn’t the best time to let it go.
“I mean, it’s hard to find a woman who likes to be hog-tied and gagged.” He shifts in his seat, but I know he heard me. He’s the one who put the thought in my head earlier when he threatened me with it.
“I bet you’re a man who takes charge, really makes a woman beg for her own pleasure.”
He clears his throat, but I can’t look up from my glass to gauge his reaction. I shouldn’t be saying any of this shit to my best friend’s ex-husband, but I can’t seem to stop myself either. Ignoring the arousal throbbing down south with each filthy word, I continue.
“Lots of hair-pulling and choking.” I hum my approval. “Taking what you want from their bodies.”
“Wow.” He slaps his glass down on the table and stands suddenly. “I think you’ve had enough to drink. Let’s head back up.”
A thousand different scenarios race through my head in the flash of a second. What will happen up in the suite? Will we make a mistake? Will I even have the courage to try? Am I building him up in my alcohol-ridden brain to be hotter than he actually is? Would Dani forgive me if we crossed a line?
As I stand and follow him out of the bar, I come to the full understanding that nothing will happen once we’re locked safely away in the suite. Even drunk, Deacon is too reserved, too closed off to ever let anything happen between the two of us. From his silence at the table, I know he isn’t interested.
Why should he be? We’ve been more enemies than friends for the last seventeen years, and our recent reconnection was born from necessity rather than any desire from either one of us. Once this is over, we’ll both go back to our separate corners of the world and will probably never see or hear from each other again.
I blame both the alcohol and the movement of the elevator for leaning closer to him as we begin to ascend.
He, on the other hand, is like a statue standing in the corner waiting for his chance to get away from me. Once the elevator stops on our floor, I don’t waste a second getting away from him, but he’s instantly at my back to insert the room card into the electronic reader.
“Crap,” I mutter when my heel catches on the threshold when he shoves the suite door open. He could just let me tumble forward. It’s not like I’m going to remember much of tonight in the morning anyway. He probably thinks a goose egg on my forehead will make his job easier by keeping me locked away in the room since I’m too vain to go out in public with such an injury. What he doesn’t know is I’m an expert with makeup and could probably lose an ear and still feel confident enough to walk out of here with a ponytail swinging.
“Easy,” he says, gripping me with an arm around my waist instead of letting me rocket forward and get hurt.
“Such a gentleman.”
He scoffs at this because it’s something I’d probably never direct at him if I were sober, even if he saved me from smacking the floor with my face.
“Let’s get you to bed.”
“Umm,” I slur. “Yes, please.”
Jesus! Does my brain to mouth connection just completely sever while drinking around this man?
Instead of telling me to kick bricks, he just groans deep in his chest, probably ready to be clear of me since I’m so annoying to him.