Total pages in book: 176
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
I just need to remember not to put myself within kissing distance of him, I think as I carry on towards the kitchen.
The kitchen. The room that I’ve been trying not to think about.
The room he made me quiver and want.
The room I almost raised my lips to his.
The room I find him leaning against the countertop, no longer dressed in running clothes but dark jeans and a fine knit sweater that clings to the delicious parts of him. Well, some of them. As far as he’s concerned, his bounty knows no bounds when it comes to scrumptiousness. A glass of something deep and red dangles negligently from one hand, and the thought crosses my mind that he looks as handsome as the devil himself. And twice as sinful.
“You wear glasses.”
At Carson’s almost delighted assertion, I find myself touching my black frames, suddenly regretting ignoring Charles’s suggestion that I dress like a sexy librarian when I wear them. Glasses are tres hot, he’d intoned when I’d gotten my first prescription shortly after Lulu was born before going on to say he preferred his librarian with a penis. But I own neither the proper attire nor the penis for either of those fantasies, not that it stops me from glancing down at my skinny jeans and running shoes as though to check.
“And you’re wearing another tight top,” I say, looking up again to run my gaze over him. Again. Ack! “I suppose you’re going to tell me you have trouble buying clothes that fit.”
“Nope.” He pops the P, refusing to be goaded. “But someone wise once told me it pays to advertise.”
Oh, God. I said that, didn’t I? And he remembers! Forgive me if I give a little swoon. Internally, at least.
“You’ve been out a while.”
My attention snaps back to his, the sound of his deep voice reverberating through my insides. I hate myself for the effect he has on me, the lack of control I feel at just the most fleeting of looks. No one in the history of me has ever made me feel like he does, clothed or unclothed.
As a result of this frustration, my answer sounds extra snarky in response. “I didn’t realise I had a curfew, dad.”
“Come on in and tell daddy what you’ve been up to all day.”
A pulse of longing ripples through my insides because the way he’s looking at me isn’t paternal. Not one bit.
“Does that ever work for you?” You know, that whole deep, rumbly and all kinds of suggestive and sexy? Because, oh my, it’s working for me. I’ve never been into age play, and calling anyone daddy at this stage of my life seemed ridiculous not two minutes ago. Now it just seems ridiculously tempting. Where can a girl find a pair of knee socks in a hurry?
“What do you think?”
I think spank me, Daddy, I’ve been a bad, bad girl. Or at least, you make me want to be.
“I don’t pretend to know or want to know what you think.” Well, it’s partly true.
“Are you going to come into the kitchen or hover on the threshold all evening?” he goads, adding another of his range of smiles, which I’m beginning to remember, almost possess a language of their own.
He turns to the cabinet behind him, pulling out another glass.
“That all depends. Are you going to try to kiss me again?”
He inclines his head as he answers, “Lady’s choice.”
“The lady chooses not.” My reply is definitive, even if it lacks veracity, but as he sets both glasses on the kitchen island, pouring a little wine into the empty one, I find myself pulling up a stool in front of him.
He had me at wine. No, that’s not true. He had me at Saint Odile, and my life hasn’t quite been the same since.
“You’re sure you wouldn’t prefer to sit on my knee?” Why does he have to smell so good? The scent of his cologne and the hint of soap cling to his skin. Maybe I should sit somewhere farther away.
Like Canada.
“I’m fine where I am, thank you.”
“I called Rose,” he murmurs, scissoring his fingers at the bottom of the glass and sliding it towards me.
“What?” The glass doesn’t even make it to my mouth. “Why would you do that?”
“Not for whatever reason you’re telling yourself.”
“Carson.” I swallow over the sound of his name, over the realisation that it’s the first time I’ve ever used it. “I want. No, I need you to keep what happened between us . . . between us.”
“Are we talking about last night or five years ago?”
“All of it.” I swallow again but in fear this time. I’ve built myself such a carefully constructed narrative. Girl meets boy. Boy woos girl before dumping her. Girl finds herself pregnant and vows to love her child enough for two. This is what my friends know of me. This is what they believe. I can’t allow them to find out now that I also hooked up with a stranger in a fit of pique, let alone that the stranger turned out to be my best friend’s friend. I’m not ashamed of that night, but I also don’t want to revisit it. Okay, that’s not exactly true because since the man before me whipped off his shirt in the bathroom Friday night, I’ve been unable to think of much else. Along with how much I need to resist.