Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
The photos in the bedroom and the other obvious signs—the guitar in the living room and his hesitation in even telling me. Oh God, I accused him of being a venture capitalist, a tech bro. Mortification sets in. And then I remember . . . My hat.
I shake my head, knowing I’ll never be able to look him in the eyes again. I should just crawl out of bed now and do a walk of shame across the hall. Although I’m seriously considering it, I stay because he’s worn his heart on his sleeve for me. And he’s just so appealing—inside and out.
He speaks of bad deeds and hell as if he’s already been sentenced, but doesn’t that come with the territory? Not that I’ll give him a free pass, but maybe what pains him isn’t so bad?
The past twenty-four hours have been amazing. And by how he sleeps so soundly beside me, I imagine they have been for him as well.
“I was afraid of this,” he says, his tone groggy, his eyes opening to the late afternoon sunshine diffused through the sheer curtains. The lightness of his voice makes me smile, his eyes finding happiness in mine.
I run my fingers through his hair and whisper, “What are you afraid of?”
“You’re still thinking about my name. It’s not a big deal.”
“I should have known. You’re rock-star royalty, Laird.”
“I’m a musician who got lucky with a few songs and a great band,” he says like Faris Wheel isn’t one of the hottest bands around. Every song they release turns to gold. Apparently, I saw them after the P1 race the weekend of the accident. I spent so much time tracking down every detail that I’m missing, but I can’t actually remember any of it. I must have gotten the hat as a souvenir, though, like the tattoo.
“Semantics.”
Chuckling, he reaches over and pulls me to him, bundling me in his arms and kissing the back of my shoulder. “Fame doesn’t matter. This does.”
I prefer to stare at him, so now that he’s flipped me to face the other side, nothing captures my attention like he did. Covering my hand over his, I hold him probably too tight, wanting to live in this moment forever, but a new fear creeps in. “What happens when we leave here?”
A kiss is placed on the back of my neck and then a little higher around the bend. He whispers, “Nothing changes. We get to be together.”
“Together?” I don’t whisper, not wanting to keep such things under wraps.
“Yeah, we’re both in LA. Nothing keeps us apart. We’re just moving what we’re sharing from here to there. Unless you leave for another job, and then I might have to kill the bastard to keep you to myself.” Gentle laughter rocks his body, and he kisses me again as if he can’t stop himself. I relish his addiction, hoping he never does.
“No murder needs to happen.” I laugh again. Why is he so perfect? “I don’t have anything lined up.” Turning in his arms, I wrap my arm around his shoulders as our legs tangle together. “This is the first job I’ve taken since the accident. It’s going to be hard to top this experience.”
He shifts me so fast I can’t protest. Now straddling him, he pulls the covers up my back and drapes them on my shoulders. “I know how to top it.”
Bending, I kiss him and then whisper, “My body needs an intermission, but I’ll hold you to it in the form of a rain check.”
Laird’s eyes contain a happiness that should always be there. He kneads my breasts in the palm of his hands. One hand moves to my ass to hold me as his mouth takes over a nipple, tonguing it until it peaks. Running my hands over his back and into his hair, I say, “It might be dangerous to be with you in LA.”
Looking up, he quickly gnaws on the end before sitting up to meet me at eye level. “Why is that?”
I smirk. “Because my body needs to recover from all the attention.”
“Hmm,” he says, seemingly pondering the situation. With the tips of his fingers, he hardens my other nipple, then licks the bud. “I can’t show favoritism when they’re both so perfectly pink for me.” When his hand dips between us, he touches the bud between my legs. “This doesn’t feel good?”
Breathing in a harsh breath, I try to control my body’s reaction, but there’s no fighting fate with him. “Too good.”
“But I don’t want you sore . . . more than you already are, that is. I want you ready.” His obsession continues as he drags those fingers up to the tattoo nearby. Lying back down, he admires me, allowing his gaze to run amok on my body. What catches his attention is something I’ve come to peace with. His fingers are gentle on my scar when he asks, “Does it hurt?”