Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 48017 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48017 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
This chemistry between Ashlee and me.
This ache for her in the front of my pants. I’m not imagining it and neither is she, and I have to tell her so.
“It’s a little tight,” I offer aloud, noting the sleeves ending a good three inches before my wrists, feeling the fabric tear like tissue paper when I move.
Mark tsks to himself and wants to take over, but I give him a firm look. A barely audible growl coming from someplace that sounds far away but is from deep inside me.
Ashlee is mine now.
Mine. And I don’t want us to be disturbed again.
Mark makes the face of a man who remembers the blank check I cut him and his wife not so long ago, the blank check that covers everything from the flowers at Brett’s wedding ceremony to the suit jackets I might tear to shreds trying on to the little gold paper sacks of wedding cake the guests will take home on the big day.
It’s all fucking paid for, and I’m staking my claim on what I really want out of all this now.
He makes a reluctant retreat, giving Ashlee a sidelong glance I don’t like.
As if he has any real say in the matter anymore. My mind is already made up.
Hearing her say I’m getting married though. Seeing her in this store with all the snow white dresses, lace, and jewelry, plastic coated floral arches…
I can see myself getting married. But not just yet and not to just anyone. In the near future. Once I’ve claimed her as my own. Once I’ve filled her with my babies.
Mrs. Ashlee Silver.
The thought almost completes me. Makes me feel like Brett’s wedding plans and this suit fitting is really just my whole life finally making sense for once.
Everything falling into place.
I should tell her, I have to. I can’t have her thinking I’m engaged to anyone.
Can’t have her thinking I’m even remotely interested in anyone or anything but her from this moment on.
I open my mouth to try and tell her it’s Brett my employee and best friend getting married, not me. But there’s something in the way she seems annoyed by it that makes me kinda want to see just how mad she’ll get.
How bad does she really want me, if she even does at all?
I mean, fuck. I must be twice her age at least. And just because a girl looks at you, has wide eyes, and maybe gasps a little, doesn’t mean they want to jump your bones.
Does it?
I’ve never been the type to feel insecure about anything. I always know just what I want and how to get it.
But Ashlee? She’s a fucking perfect ten. An eleven.
As much as I tell myself she’s already mine, I need to give respect where it’s due.
I need to make sure she’s not taken. And if she is, I need to fix that.
I also need to know she wants me as much as I want her, otherwise, I’ll lose my fucking mind.
I’ve never felt this way about anyone or anything, ever.
It’s nothing to feel something or want something over a period of time, but instantly, like this?
No. This is serious and I’m deadly serious about how I know I feel right now. How I know I’ll feel forever.
I feel myself tensing up at the thought and some more fabric makes a ripping sound, making Ashlee suck air in through her teeth.
“I don’t know why he even brought this one out. I mean, you’re so big,” she says, one of her hands running absently across the back of my shoulders and over the fabric.
Her soft, tiny hand on my firm body gives us both a glimpse of that feeling again, and I feel her other hand on my shoulders, not smoothing out fabric. Not looking for a tear.
Wanting to get at the skin underneath.
“Maybe we should start over,” I tell her. Meaning about her thinking it’s me who’s getting married, but she pulls her hands back, mentioning something about that being a good idea.
“We do need to start from scratch with this jacket,” she agrees, making a face. “Mark must’ve measured you up when you were more…relaxed,” she offers, and I can see her concentrated face forming behind me in one of the numerous mirrors.
She’s focused on the work, on the jacket. Not the man underneath.
But why?
Because she thinks you’re getting married, or maybe she’s got someone of her own.
But something tells me that’s not true either. There’s a look in her eyes I’ve seen before.
The look of someone who’s gone through it all alone, by themselves. Dealt with all the crap life throws their way with nobody but themselves to solve their problems.
I know the look.
I see it sometimes when I’m shaving in the morning.
“So you live here all alone, after hours I mean?” I ask. About as direct as I can get without asking her point-blank if she’s taken.