Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
For the inevitable sex we’re going to have.
I’m practically dying with embarrassment as I start plating the shrimp linguine, half a bottle of wine sloshing around in my belly, and the guy’s not even home yet. Part of me hopes he doesn’t show up—then I can give in to my cowardice and skip this conversation entirely.
I told him I’d turkey-baster his baby into my belly, but that was a lie. I’m not even sure that would work.
The door opens and shuts, and I wince with each step as Simon comes into the kitchen. He breathes deep and leans against the counter, a smile on his face, and I hate how much I like that he looks pleased. It sends a raw, animalistic urge deep into my core, and now that I’ve started thinking about sleeping with him, it’s like I can’t get his kiss, his touch, his mouth out of my freaking head.
“You cooked,” he says, practically beaming. “I mean, you said you were going to via text, which is why I rushed home. But you really went all out.”
“Don’t get used to it.” I shove his plate at him. “Want wine?”
He laughs as he sets the table. “I’d love some.”
We have a normal meal together, or at least as normal as it can be. When I ask how his day went, he gets all quiet and doesn’t say much, which is Simon-speak for bad. But in this context bad can mean lost my keys or it can mean killed a warehouse full of mafia goons, and I decide not to press the issue.
Instead, I keep looking at him. I grab quick glances, at his mouth, at his arms, especially at his hands. I have a thing for fingers and fingernails. I don’t know what the hell it is about them, but a set of clean nails, trimmed well, with good cuticles, really gets me going.
And Simon has amazing hands. They’re big with long, thick fingers, and lovely, manicured nails. They’re not bitten, not picked, not broken, but clean and smooth, almost polished to a sheen.
Then his fingers, my god, his fingers—they’re almost muscular, which is not at all the word I’d normally use to describe freaking fingers, but somehow Simon pulls it off.
I want those fingers. I want them on my body, between my legs, in my mouth. I want to suck his middle finger all the way down as he fucks me.
“I talked with your sister Laura today,” I blurt out because I really need to stop imagining him pinning me down and stroking into my pussy with those beautiful hands of his.
He looks surprised as he leans back and rolls up his sleeves, showing more of his muscular, veiny forearms. Fingers and forearms, the guy has to know what makes me horny, and I hate him for it.
“And how’d that go? I assume she didn’t seek you out?”
I tell him about finding her in one of the guest houses playing piano. “It was beautiful, to be honest, but she’s a little—” I hesitate, not sure how to put it.
“She’s strange,” Simon supplies, a little smile on his lips. “It’s okay, you can say it. We all do. Laura’s been through some things in her life and they made her a little bit closed off and hostile. Sort of like Davide.”
That makes a lot of sense. She seems like an interesting person—talented, beautiful, born into a rich and powerful family—but it’s like she has trouble coming out of her shell. I can relate in a lot of ways.
“She seemed very complimentary of you.” I clear my throat and throw back the rest of my wine. “She said you’re the most honest person she knows.”
That surprises him. He taps a finger against his mouth (I could absolutely die right now) and looks over toward the door. “I’ve never heard her say that before. What were you talking about?”
“Nothing,” I say a little too fast and it makes him smile. “I mean, we were talking about you, obviously.” I start rushing, the words spilling out. “I just didn’t know if I could trust you, and she kept asking if I cared about you as more than just a means to an end, and I just—” I stop and take a breath. “Did you mean it when you said you want me to sleep in your bed with you?”
He leans back and stares at me, shaking his head like he’s having trouble keeping up. “That was a lot,” he says with a small laugh. “But I’ll answer your question first. Yes, baby, I meant it when I said I wanted you to sleep in my bed.”
I take another deep breath to try to steady my galloping heart. A thudding pulse sounds between my legs, and if I’m not careful, I just might throw myself at him and beg him to sink those beautiful fingers deep inside me.