Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
So, dinner it was. At his own fucking hotel.
Wild, right?
I ribbed him about it all night. Told him he was pussy whipped. The irony is, I get it now. There was just a wall between me and Mila last night, and I wanted to tear that fucker down.
“I said that shit, but as it turns out, I’m happy to be proven wrong. I feel this, Matt. Feel the rightness in my bones. And she’s not a stranger. I’ve spoken to you about her before.”
Matt groans down the line. “It’s not that horsey-lookin’ one from that shite TV show.”
“Who?”
“You know the one—she always seems to surface when we’re out. Hanging around when the photogs are about.”
“The woman from Made in Richmond?” I feel my expression twist. “Charlotte something or other?”
“That’s the one. She can’t take a hint, which makes me think she hasn’t enough brain cells to start a fire. You need two to rub together.”
“I haven’t spoken to you about her.”
“Aye, you have. Complained, more like.”
“I’ve never touched her,” I reiterate. Not that she hasn’t offered.
“I should’ve known it wouldn’t be her. Evie wouldn’t have that fame whoor anywhere near her big day.”
“Evie likes my girl.” That much seemed true.
“Your girl?”
“I’m fucking married to her!” I protest. “Her name is Mila.”
Matt falls quiet. But just saying her name sends a wave of sunshine through my chest.
“Mila,” he repeats.
“You remember, right?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I remember. I just can’t quite believe it.”
Chapter 21
Mila
“Hey, pretty girl.”
My eyes flutter open, and I’m momentarily unsure who the compliment belongs to. But then I remember the voice from my dream. And how his touch became my reality.
“Hi.” I smile, the buttery light in the room making the color of his eyes meltingly sexy. “What are you doing?” My question is soporific, my movements sort of liquid as I stretch out along the mattress.
“Just watching you.”
“Creeper.” A flight of butterflies sweeps through my undies. “Any particular reason you’re watching, Creepy McCreeperson?”
“I’ve been waiting for your eyes to open. So I can make them roll back in your head again. Cool trick, huh?”
“You’re hilarious,” I say, sounding the opposite, though I wouldn’t be surprised if they had. I think I was even speaking in tongues at one point. “How long have I been asleep?” Because I feel amazing. I’m not sure how laughter can be proclaimed the best form of medicine when Fin has made me feel this wonderful.
Maybe life would be simpler if great sex was offered on prescription.
“Smiling girl.” But Fin is smiling too. “Wanna share those thoughts?”
“Not with you.”
From where he’s seated on the edge of the bed, Fin brushes a few strands of my hair away from my cheek. “You’ve been out a couple of hours.”
“You weren’t sleepy?”
His response is a little enigmatic. And a lot out of character.
“Was I snoring? Because I don’t snore,” I tag on quickly, hoping that Adam was lying. Just being cruel.
“Nope. That would’ve put me off counting your eyelashes.” But then he grins.
I make to stretch the sleep from my limbs, when I remember I’m naked under the sheet. Again. My heart gives a one-two thud, my arms dropping back to the mattress as my sympathetic nervous system turns over and does its awkward thing.
But when I find the ends of the sheet folded neatly just under my neck, I stifle a smile. Fin obviously went to the trouble of covering me before waking me up. Not because he doesn’t want to look but because he wants me to be comfortable.
That previous unhappy thought, one about Adam, suddenly feels like a poke in the middle of the forehead. How different this experience is. Or maybe all relationships turn toxic at some point. Does familiarity breed contempt?
No. The reason I’ve been so down on myself, so down on my body, is because Adam wore me to that point. I lost myself in that relationship, but I think Fin is helping me find myself again. Just a few hours ago, I was naked and spread-eagled in front of him—I know he likes what he sees, and I don’t just have to take his word for it. His huskily delivered, heart-stoppingly dirty compliments. Because I also see how he watches me, how he pays attention. How his eyes drink their fill when I’m undertaking the most ordinary of tasks. And then there’s earlier, when he studied my reactions and seemed to get off on my pleasure, postponing his own.
To think I might’ve missed out on that experience.
To think we could’ve been going at it like bad bunnies since Saturday.
Sex. Wow. That tiny word doesn’t even cover what he did to me. What he did for me. What we experienced together. He pushed me out of my shell, showed me who was boss . . . while making sure at all times I was happy to hand things over.