Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74844 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74844 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
I wasn’t just shooting the shit when I said what I said to her. When I expressed how I had thought of her, dreamed of her, and prayed to see her again. I hadn’t realized how much those feelings meant until I set eyes on her again.
I am not only in this postseason for the Bears; I’m in it for Elliot.
I have to make her realize that she feels the same.
I know she does. I feel it with the way she looks at me, the way her lips curve up when she doesn’t want them to, and the ongoing battle in her eyes. It may make me an asshole, but fuck if I don’t want to throw fuel on the fire of the battle in her soul to make it burn just for me. I want to make it so hard for her that she can’t resist me and she feels how I feel. I want Elliot badly, and she will want me by the end of this dinner.
I plan to charm the pants right off my gorgeous lady.
When the door chimes, I snap up my gaze to see her entering. At once, her eyes land on me, and a flush moves across her cheeks. I love that about us, how when we find ourselves in the same room, our eyes lock automatically. I don’t know if she’s ever noticed, but I have.
Breathless, I stand as she starts for me. While she could wear a paper bag and I’d think she was stunning, I really don’t understand all the loose-fitting clothes I’ve seen her in today. It’s odd. She never hid her body before. We went on plenty of outings where she would wear a crop top, and it was almost winter then. She runs hot, yet every inch of her is covered. But it’s kind of exciting. Like I am truly unwrapping my gift from above.
She stops hesitantly before me, and I’m unable to handle the space between us. I reach out for her, grasping her hips and loving how my fingers feel in her flesh. Her eyes hold mine as my lips turn up at one side. “Hey there, mami.”
She swallows, and I can see the anxiety coursing through her. Her hands are shaking a bit, and she’s gnawing the shit out of her bottom lip. I know she battles with anxiety daily. She’s on meds and goes to therapy for it, even though she tried to hide it. When someone is at your house a lot, you hear things, see things, and I don’t miss a fucking thing. I don’t know why she tries to keep it to herself. I only want to support her. “Hey.”
As I bring her in, she comes willingly, a small smile playing on her lips. When I try to bring her flush to me, though, she only presses her chest to mine and hugs me tightly before pulling away. I eye her, confused by the awkwardness of the hug. She quickly looks away from me and then at the table. “I love this spot.”
I’ve brought her here before, and it pleases me that she hasn’t forgotten. I pull out her chair, and she sits down as my lips move to her ear. “Te ves lo suficientemente buena para comer.” You look good enough to eat. I kiss her at the spot below her ear as she sighs deeply.
“Alex…” she warns, her eyes meeting mine, and fuck, if I don’t want to kiss those glossed-up lips. When I found out she was fluent in Spanish, it made me hard. Being able to whisper how much I desire her without people knowing what I am saying has always been my favorite pastime. Especially when I win a bit of a blush.
“¿Qué?”
“No flirting.”
I laugh at that. “I never have, nor will I ever, agree to that when it comes to you, palomita.” Little dove.
Contempt flashes in her hazel eyes. “I’m not a bird.”
“You’re flighty, for sure,” I say, and she rolls her eyes before she reaches for the menu. I take her in, loving how she hasn’t changed a bit in the last six months. Her brownish hair is up, and I wish it were down just so I could run my fingers through the strands. She doesn’t have on much makeup, just enough to make all her stunning features shine. Before I can tell her so, the waiter comes over to greet us.
“A bottle of—”
“I don’t drink anymore,” she says, cutting me off, and I bring in my brows. “Just a blackberry lemonade for me.”
The waiter looks at me, and I nod. “Same for me.”
Without looking at me, her eyes on the menu, she says, “You can still drink.”
“Not if you aren’t.” I wait for her to elaborate. When she doesn’t say anything else, I ask, “When did you stop drinking?”