Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
I whipped my head and body around so fast I might have given myself whiplash, slammed my eyes shut, and tried to lay perfectly still.
Who just drops their towel when their not-girlfriend is laying in a bed right there? So what if I was pretending to be asleep?
The only explanation was that he knew exactly what he was doing. He knew his ass was the stuff of dreams, and he was hoping I looked. It was the only explanation.
Bastard.
I felt him slide into the blankets beside me. I could almost picture him lingering there, half propped-up as he faced me and considered saying something. I waited, heart hammering, but he didn't reach for me. Didn't try to continue what we'd started.
I almost wanted him to.
And then I felt him lay down fully.
Part of me was relieved. The smarter part of me. The part that remembered how much it hurt last time.
The rest of me wanted to climb on top of him and pick up exactly where we'd left off.
I heard him shift, followed by a soft sigh. The mattress dipped as he rolled over, and I held my breath, wondering if he'd reach for me.
He didn't.
I lay there in the dark, hyper-aware of every movement, every breath. The distance between us felt both too big and not big enough.
Eventually, his breathing evened out. I stayed awake far too long, wondering if he was really asleep or just pretending like I was.
I was sixteen again, learning to drive stick shift in my dad's ancient Volkswagen. The gearshift kept sticking, and I couldn't get it into first gear no matter how hard I pushed and pulled.
"You have to be gentle with it," Dream-Dad said from the passenger seat. "Feel for the sweet spot."
I jerked the stick back and forth, growing frustrated. The car made strange sounds and shook, almost as if it was laughing at my futile attempts to figure this thing out. "It won't go!"
"Maybe try rotating it a little," Dream-Dad suggested. "Sometimes you have to work it around until you find the right position."
I tried moving the stick shift in circles, but that just made the shaking and laughing worse.
The shifter was warm against my hand. What a nice feature. I’d heard of heated seats and heated steering wheels. But heated stick shifts? Fancy. My hands were cold. So I wrapped my other hand around it, just to enjoy the warmth.
Even if I couldn’t quite get the car to move the way I wanted, there was something I enjoyed about playing with the thing. I felt my Dream-Dad fade out of existence, because that sort of thing definitely happened all the time. It was just me and the stick shift, which I had given up understanding. I was just absently rubbing my fingertips over the tip of it now as my hand slid up and down its length.
The car had stopped shaking now and it was almost like it was trying to talk to me.
Yes, car? Are you trying to explain the secrets of the stick shift to me?
"Emma."
The car knows my name. That’s creepy.
"Emma, sweetheart..."
And now it’s calling me sweetheart. And its voice is honestly really hot. Why is my car’s voice—
My eyes flew open. Early morning light cut through the window in buttery shafts, illuminating a very amused-looking James. I was pressed against his side with my face on his chest, and my hands were...
"I can’t say I’ve ever had a woman try that exact technique on me?" he said, voice rough with sleep. “But I’ll give you an A+ for effort. It felt like you were trying to get me to shift into gear or something. I’d say we’re in second or third gear already, maybe we’ll hit fourth if you keep it up.”
That's when I realized my hands were wrapped around something that definitely wasn't a gearshift. Something hard and—oh god. Based on how long his sweats had been tenting, I must have been "adjusting" things for a while.
"How long have you been awake?" I squeaked.
“Not long,” he admitted, rubbing his eyes and smirking. For some reason, my hands were still on his cock. I could feel it pulsing beneath my fingers and had to fight the urge to bite my lip and keep going.
Oh God. What the hell is wrong with me?
I jerked my hands away, looking at them as if they were possessed.
“I have to say,” James continued. “I’m starting to really enjoy sharing a bed with you. Your morning hospitality is absolutely stellar. And the surprise aspect?” He did a “chef’s kiss” motion, smiling wider. “I can’t wait to see what treat you have in store for me tomorrow. Whispering sweet nothings in my ear? Or maybe you’ll be dreaming you’re making clay pots?” He cupped his hands around a phantom clay pot and moved them up and down, as if his implication wasn’t already clear enough.