Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86573 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86573 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
He goes in for a kiss, but I palm his face, stopping him. “Care to rephrase that? It wasn’t the most romantic thing you’ve ever said.”
Chuckling, he kisses my hand and says, “Basically, you’re a leech I can’t seem to get rid of.”
“Rome.” I pull on the lapels of his jacket.
“Okay, sorry.” He clears his throat. “You’re a piranha—”
“I hate you.” I start to walk away when he pulls me back into his chest and captures my lips with his. Smooth like silk, they glide over mine, nipping, licking, and sucking to the point that my knees start to go weak, and I am forced to dig my hands into Rome’s biceps to steady myself.
When he pulls away, he softly brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, keeping his eyes fixed on mine. “You’re special to me, Peyton, and I wouldn’t trade this last month for anything. Not because you’re killer at what you do, and not because you’re fucking sexy as shit in the bedroom, but because you’ve genuinely put a smile on my face, and there aren’t many people I can say do that to me.”
Be still my heart.
This man has rendered me speechless, because no one has ever said that to me before. Has ever seen all of me the way he does. I swallow back tears, because even though the words are romantic and sentimental, praise from this man still stuns me.
I bite my bottom lip to keep it from trembling and run my fingers through his hair, framing his face with my hand. “You’ve been my dream man for so long, Rome, and . . . actually no. That’s not right. You are even better—more magnificent than the dream I’d imagined. And the fact that I can stand here, touching you any way I want, and I have those beautiful eyes of yours giving me your full attention, it means everything to me.”
He pinches my chin and pulls on my bottom lip with his thumb. “Keep saying things like that and we’ll never make it to dinner.”
“What’s for dinner?”
“Your favorite, chicken pot pie.”
I weigh my options. “Sex or chicken pot pie.” I pause, giving it some real thought. “God, I’m so sorry, Rome, but I’m going to have to go with the chicken pot pie.”
Chuckling, he takes my hand and leads me inside to our table. “Don’t worry, I knew that would be your answer. The passion you have for a dinner pie is powerful. I know where I stand.”
“If it were a casserole, we would be naked right about now.”
He pulls a chair out for me. “What if it were quiche?”
“Ooo,” I cringe. “Tough matchup. Let me get back to you on that. You know how I love a good quiche.”
Hands on my shoulders, leaning forward, he places a quick kiss on my jaw and whispers, “I know all too well how much you like quiche . . . babe.”
* * *
“Peyton, what the hell is taking you so long?”
I stroll down Rome’s hallway, the concrete chilly beneath my feet as I make my way toward my man.
It was a long day full of rigorous work, prepping the launch of the new women’s line in a few weeks, and it’s taken its toll on me. I’m exhausted.
It could also be from the insatiable man sitting on the stiff couch, shirtless, in sweatpants—yes, Rome owns a few pairs—who about ten minutes ago came inside me with such a vicious roar that I was certain he was going to pass out. But nope, he’s sitting in the living room, waiting for me to cuddle and watch a movie.
“I’m a little sore,” I say, hobbling over to him.
His forehead creases, sharp brows pulling together. “Sore? From what?”
Slowly, I ease myself down next to him, feeling a little twinge in my back, only to settle on a rock-hard surface, and I’m not talking, Rome.
I hate his couch, so much. It’s so uncomfortable. Everything about his entire place is uncomfortable, but to be fair in this little relationship, I suggested splitting the nights we spend in each other’s places. My apartment, although not as fancy, is a hell of a lot more comfortable, with maybe a crazy neighbor problem that likes to scream a lot. Not Rome’s favorite part about staying with me, but at least he can sit on my couch without cracking a hip. I’ve told him you get used to the yelling after a while, but he hasn’t seemed to catch on.
Turning toward me, Rome assesses my body, strong gaze unwavering as he looks me up and down. “Why are you sore?”
I hold my lower back. “I don’t know, maybe it was the acrobats you put me through on a daily basis.”
Just in time, I see his face go from extreme concern to a lazy smile as he pulls me into his chest. “Babe, sex sore is different than real sore. Sex sore is something to be proud of.”