Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
“Me?” Sofie raises her brows, a smile stretching between her cheeks. “You want me to cook?”
“I have the recipe.”
“Oh, well then we’re home free.” She adds a laugh to her sarcasm, shaking her head. “I’m not much of a cook, Bishop.”
She gestures at the dress I’ll be dreaming about stripping off her tonight when I’m in my cold bed alone.
“And not really dressed to cook.”
“You can throw on something of mine.” I grin, pulling her to her feet. “It’ll be fun.”
“I think we have different definitions of fun.”
I risk pulling her close, setting my hands at her slim hips, breathing in her clean scent.
“I think we can meet somewhere in the middle.”
She rests her elbows against my chest, leaning into me, green eyes open and teasing.
“I really like meeting in the middle,” she says, her tone light but her voice husky.
“So do I, Sof.” I drop a quick kiss on her soft lips. “But first, dessert.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sofie
I held Trevor’s dick in my hands twice today before the sun was up, but baking a cobbler with him makes me nervous?
One of his T-shirts hangs almost to my knees, and my brown dress is laid out on his king-size bed. I glance around the room, taking in the shades of ebony and cream, punctuated with splashes of raspberry. I know it’s a guest room, surely decorated by his sister or some designer; I know that this isn’t his home, but I still find myself searching for clues to the man who, as open and genuine as he is, remains a mystery.
A desk takes up one corner of the room, its surface neat but peppered with stacks of papers and files. Pictures of his family are everywhere—on the desk, on the nightstand and shelves. It’s sweet how much they mean to him. I’ve never had that connection with my parents, and seeing how he loves his family only strengthens his appeal.
One picture in particular catches my attention. Trevor is hugging his mother from behind. They’re both looking into the camera laughing, the ocean behind them no more vivid than their smiles and ginger-colored hair.
“That was taken at my beach house on Tybee Island,” Trevor says from the doorway, startling me.
“Sorry.” I step away from the desk. “I wasn’t snooping. Just curious.”
He walks fully into the room, taking in the oversize Princeton T-shirt and my bare legs peeking out from beneath the hem.
“I guess that’s a little big, huh?” He pushes back the hair that has escaped from the knot I haphazardly pinned behind my ear.
“Just a little.” I tug at the shirt, conscious that though everything is covered, I’m wearing only panties underneath. I’ve posed nude for Playboy, but one man catching a peek at my business makes me self-conscious?
“Are you nervous?” He ducks his head, capturing my eyes and smiling.
“A little.” A breathy laugh slips past my lips. “Is that so hard to believe?”
“Not really.” He glances between me and the large bed, his smile widening. “This is a dangerous place to be if I want to stick to my guns.”
“Now who’s nervous?” I tease, a smile I can’t stop on my face.
“Don’t mistake caution for nerves.” He leans down to leave a kiss I want to deepen on my lips. He pulls away, a knowing smile on his face. He knows damn well how wound up he has me, that if he wanted to have me on that bed right now, he could. This taking it slow thing is new to me, especially when I want someone as badly as I do Trevor.
Only I can’t remember wanting anyone like this. It’s not even that package of his, though I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him thick and hard in my hands. There’s more. Maybe the more he wants from me is the same more I want from him. It feels foreign, knowing that even if I had sex right now, it wouldn’t be enough. What I want from him goes deeper than that. I want to know why he’s so passionate about third world nations. He told me not to assume I know what he dreams about. What does he dream about? If he believes in following the fire, what burns so bright that his whole life shines, inspiring other people to find their own fire?
And could he inspire me?
It scares the living shit out of me.
“I’ve got the recipe.” He shows me his phone, an email containing the recipe for dessert.
“Black and blue cobbler?” I lick my lips. “That sounds very Southern. Very fattening. And very delicious.”
“Are you sure you’re a model?” He presses a warm hand to my back, ushering me out of his bedroom and into the hall. “’Cause you kinda eat like a horse.”
“That’s the second time you’ve called me a horse tonight, Bishop.” I laugh as we take the stairs back down. “My fragile self-esteem can’t handle it.”