Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 76402 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76402 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
"That's such a guy thing to say," I told him, shaking my head. "They're new. I didn't know they would hurt my feet until I wore them for a day."
"They're icepicks attached to your heel and you didn't think they might not feel so great?" he shot back, brow raised.
I bit back a comment about how it had been a decade since I wore heels, so I had no idea how my feet would feel anymore. But that invited questions, ones I didn't really want to have to answer.
"Some heels don't bother your feet, believe that or not," I informed him with some authority I didn't feel as we took the elevator up to Thad's floor.
He towered over me as I opened the locks and moved inside, reaching down to free my feet of the torture devices, having to flex my feet up off the floor for a second before they un-stiffened enough to be able to walk on them.
"You're bleedin'," he informed me, making my gaze shoot down to find a bloody gash across the back of my heel.
"Seems about right," I agreed, making my way over to the coffee pot. "So this is Thad's place," I told him, waving a hand around.
"You got another sister?" he asked, hand touching the two kimonos on the back of the couch.
"Oh, ah, no. Thad has a kimono. And then a guest kimono. And I am, apparently, an idiot for not knowing one needs such a thing as a guest kimono."
To that, Virgin snorted. "I don't even have a guest blanket."
"I don't imagine you have many overnight guests."
"Can't tell if that is an insult or ego stroke," he murmured as the smell of coffee filled the air. Three scoops was the right amount, I had found.
"Maybe a bit of both," I admitted, reaching for the mugs, having to go up on my tiptoes to do so since I was vertically challenged and Thad was half giant.
"Need some help?" A voice asked. Close. Really close. So close that I felt the body sidle in behind me, strong thighs brushing against my ass, arms going around my sides, trapping me in as he reached for the almost-out-of-reach mugs.
And what was I thinking, you might ask?
Something absolutely ridiculous.
And cheesy.
We can't forget cheesy.
Because it was some freaking old school romance novel level of smarmy.
I might not mind imprisonment if it was between his arms.
See?
I was embarrassed by my own internal monologue.
In its defense, it had been a long, long time since there was even a clear and present danger about the imprisonment between a man's arms. And there had never been anything like the 'set the alarms to Def Con One' kind of threat that this stupidly good looking, obnoxiously sexy, unnaturally calm man with his front pressed against my back caused.
Sure that if I spent even a second more thinking of my current predicament - and how him bending me over the counter would not be a wholly unwelcome progression of events - my mouth blurted out the first thing it could drag out of the fog of my mind.
"Why do they call you Virgin?"
His arms - and the mugs nestled like little doll vessels in his giant hands - paused in mid-air for a moment, caught off-guard, before descending to the countertop with a quiet click, his hands abandoning them - and how much they must have missed his touch - and grabbing the counter instead. Lucky counter.
Jesus.
What the hell was wrong with me?
Did I fall off the back of the bike back there, slam my head, and find myself experiencing that lovely end-of-life reel of fantasies flashing before my eyes, as my brain fired off and died?
That was possibly the only explanation for my thoughts right about then.
"They call me Virgin because I don't give a fuck," he told me, voice - and therefore mouth - down near my ear.
Mouth.
Mouth and lips.
Lips and kissing.
Right at that little spot behind said ear, that spot that shocked off a thousand fireworks when touched just right. And something in me said he would know how to do it just right.
Okay.
Space.
I needed some space.
Ducking low - well, lower - I clumsily shoved myself into the small space under his arm, spinning outward, going toward the fridge as though it was imperative that at that very second, I get the half & half out for us.
A low, rolling chuckle let me know that he found my behavior - at worst - ridiculous, or - at best - kinda cute and amusing.
If I were a betting person, I would always put my money on the safest bet. Meaning the most negative thing when it came to me and my luck.
"That's funny. I mean... I doubt it was funny how you came to get that name. But it must be fun to explain that to people when they ask about it. Does everyone in your club have fun road names?"