Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
I don’t know if this is jealousy or a warning. Is it a playful flex at how good he gets me off? Or is it a thinly veiled attempt at staking his claim … to me?
Whatever it is, it’s hot as hell.
I grab his shoulders and lower his face to mine.
“I might forget,” I whisper against his lips. “You better show me again.”
He slides his tongue and his cock into me, making sure his point is made.
CHAPTER 20
Blakely
Traffic is light. Renn seems to interpret this as a green light for action because he races through the streets of Nashville like it's his personal racetrack.
“My mom used to have this saying that went something like, ‘Better to get there late than get to your grave early.’ And that was when we had somewhere to be. The last I knew, we didn’t have anywhere to be today,” I say.
“I’m anxious.”
He zooms by an SUV, crosses two lanes, and takes an exit.
“Well, so am I now,” I say, yawning. “Do you always drive like this?”
“Only when I’m anxious.”
I wedge my elbow against the glass and prop my head on my hand.
As much as I’d love for him to slow down, I can’t deny that watching him drive is a major turn-on. It’s the command. The confidence. The way his jaw flexes and his hand grips the steering wheel. It’s subtly reminiscent of how he moves in the bedroom … and the kitchen, outdoor shower area, patio, dining area, bathroom, foyer, and on the plane coming home.
And his backward hat doesn’t hurt, either.
“Are you going to tell me what sparked this anxiety you speak of?” I ask. “Because you didn’t seem nervous until now.”
He glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “I’m taking you home. That’s a lot of pressure.”
I balk.
“It is.” He turns his attention back to the road. Thankfully. “What if you don’t like it?”
I giggle. “I’m sure I’ll like it.”
“I just want you to be comfortable there. And it’s not like I had a lot of time to prepare for this since you whisked me off and married me in the middle of the night.”
“Oh, right. Sure.”
He grins. The sight of his sweet, simple smile warms my heart.
“If it makes you feel any better, I’m a little nervous, too,” I say. “Think about this from my perspective. I’m going to be in your house.”
“Our house.”
“With your stuff.”
“Our stuff.”
“And I won’t know where anything is, or if I should be in a certain room, or where to put my stuff. Truth be told, I didn’t think about the details of this until now. And it’s a little too late to do anything about it.”
He slips his hand off the gear shifter and takes my hand in his. He laces our fingers together and gives them a gentle squeeze.
“If you don’t know where something is, ask,” he says. “Or just look for it and put it wherever you want. As far as rooms go—you can go wherever you want. Snoop away.”
I laugh.
“Astrid has organized my closet so you can put your clothes and things there with mine,” he continues. “I honestly don’t have a ton of stuff. She’s always on my ass to get this or that, but I never do. I lived a bachelor life in Australia and didn’t want to haul what I did have all over the world. It didn’t make a lot of sense.”
He pulls onto a quiet street lined with trees. The car slows, the engine roaring as it winds down. We’re not on the street long when we pull up to a gate. Renn rolls down his window and waves to a man in a security booth.
“Hey, Rodger,” Renn says.
“Good day, Mr. Brewer. Welcome home, sir.”
“Thank you. I’d like you to meet my wife, Blakely.” He looks at me over his shoulder. “Blakely, this is Rodger.”
“Hello,” I say.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Brewer. And congratulations.”
I blush. “Thank you.”
“I will have Astrid bring you the information you need to place my wife on the approved entry list,” Renn says.
“Very well.” The gates swing open. “Have a good day, sir.”
“It was nice to meet you, Rodger,” I say, waving.
“You also, ma’am.”
Renn rolls up his window and creeps into the neighborhood on the other side of the iron fence.
Massive estates are sprinkled to my left and right. Each is more impressive than the next. Fountains and luxury cars, gardeners tending intricate gardens, and maids sweeping steps—a world I’ve never seen before.
Brock has always lived in fancy communities. I’ve teased him about it mercilessly. And I don’t live in a bad area by any means, thanks to my brother’s insistence on housing in well-to-do areas. But well-to-do or not, none of those places are anything like this.
“Bianca and Ripley live in Four Oaks, too.” He looks at me. “That’s the name of this community.”