Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
“But things don’t always—” Don’t say work out. Pre-hookup is not the moment to drop the news that you’re the Nietzsche of relationships.
I pivot back to TV talk. As if I’d meant to break off mid-sentence. “Actually, I do have a show to pitch you,” I say.
“All right. Have at it.”
Stroking my chin as we walk, I set the scene. “This sexy Brit shows up at a carnival. Comes right up to this American at the dunk tank.”
“I’m listening,” he says, playing up the intrigue in his voice.
“Smooth talker, this guy.”
“Is he now?”
I glance at Hunter. He’s smiling too. “Sure is,” I add. “Then he buys a couple pies to hurl at the American. You want to know why?”
“I do,” he says, this close to breathless as we turn onto my block.
No need to google opening lines. I’m just going for it. If he wants bossy, he’ll get it. “The Brit wanted the American to have an excuse to invite him over. To clean up the pie. But really, the Brit wanted to get inside the guy’s home so the American could push him up against the door and kiss the fuck out of him.”
Hunter’s breath catches. He blinks, then says in a rumble, “Yes. I’d buy that show. Right now.”
4
THE PIE STRATEGY
Hunter
The door to Nate’s three-story condo shuts with a loud snap, sealing us into his home.
Holy shit.
This is real.
This is happening. For a terrifying second, all my confidence slinks out the door.
I’m inside a man’s home. A man who wants me. A man who’s craving the same things I am.
I might have strutted into the carnival with all the cool of a cheetah, but now that I’m this close to my fantasies I’m an anxious Chihuahua.
I don’t want to make a mistake. Maybe I should tell him I’m a virgin. I’ve only ever kissed a man. Groped and grinded with clothes on.
I could tell him the truth seductively as I tug at his shirt, as I drag my fingers down his chest. As I lure him closer with my charm.
I could whisper, I’ve never been with a guy, but I’m up for anything.
Except what if that means he won’t kiss the fuck out of me? What if that makes him too afraid to push me against the wall?
Right now, Nate Chandler stares at me with blue eyes that darken with desire.
My chest heats up. Hell, my whole body is on fire.
Fuck the truth.
I don’t owe anyone my secrets, especially when my secrets and I are getting on a plane in a few hours.
I muster all my confidence and channel it into my desires. “Well, give me an idea of how this show starts.”
Smiling, all crooked and cocky, he advances toward me, grabs the neck of my shirt, and tugs me against him. “Come with me,” he whispers hotly.
What? We’re going to his bedroom already? Am I ready for that? Is everything on the table?
My pulse skitters, but when Nate turns around, he heads to the kitchen.
Oh.
Whew. Yes. That’s better.
He yanks off his shirt, tosses it on the counter, then stops at the sink. After grabbing a towel, he wets it. “C’mere,” he says.
Well, that’s direct too. But I don’t have much to compare him to except the few men I’ve met in bars in London.
Most are coyer. They want to play games. I don’t want games. I want…touch.
Nate gets that.
I stride over to him, closing the distance quickly.
Then he darts out his hand, swipes the towel down my nose. “There.”
My cheeks redden. “There was pie on my nose the whole time, and you didn’t tell me?”
“It was cute,” he says with a smile.
“Pie on my nose is not cute,” I say.
An impish grin glides across his mouth then reaches his eyes. “A little cute,” he whispers, then I snag the towel from him, wet it, and clean a speck of cherries from his jaw. A smidge on his cheek. A dot on his neck.
“Now we’re even,” I say.
“Are we?” Nate asks. It comes out husky, a little rough.
“Maybe if you tell me more about your show idea, we will be,” I say.
He grabs my hips. “About my idea…”
His hands. The possession. It’s beyond sexy. “Yes?” I ask, hot everywhere.
“Here’s another possibility for the show. What if it starts with the Brit kissing the American?”
“That’s a good start,” I say.
He rubs his thumb along my lower back. “Do it,” he urges, all low and growly.
This is what I’ve craved—someone direct and dirty.
With my heart stuttering and my dick thumping, I rope my arms around his neck, bring my mouth to his, and start nice and slow.
His lips are full and confident, and he tastes incredible. I explore his mouth, wanting to capture every second of this kiss and whatever it might turn into.
As I do, I draw out heady gasps from the big athlete. The sounds he makes are intoxicating, and I want more of his moans.