Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 129944 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129944 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
“Are you laughing at me?”
He lifted his chin and a blinding grin stretched across his face. “Do you realize that you do that all the time?”
“Do what?”
“Follow me around, picking up my mess.” Then his face fell, grave all of a sudden. His dark lashes lowered over his eyes. “No one’s ever picked up my mess before. It’s usually the other way around,” he mumbled.
He rarely opened up about himself, played his cards close to the vest, and I didn’t want to say anything to discourage him. I knew he had revealed more than he intended so I tried to lighten the mood. “That’s because you’re a slob.”
His lips quirked. He clasped my wrist and brought me gently against the warm shelter of his chest. “Your slob,” he said seductively, prompting a smile on my face too.
He made love to the delicate skin of my neck bellow my ear while his fingers smoothly unbuttoned my uniform. His sex hardened against my stomach as he began licking and biting the exposed skin of my bare shoulders.
“So…about this weekend?” The hint of something vulnerable in his voice didn’t escape me. His gaze caught mine. Apprehension and hope took turns flashing in his eyes.
“I’m here for you,” I whispered. Because I was. And I was done denying it to myself and to him.
* * *
It was chilly that night, even though it was already the end of June. He lit a fire and we made love on the rug in front of the fireplace. Relaxed, replete, I stretched every limb like a cat sunning itself on a hot pavement in summer. He rose up on an elbow and picked up a ripe strawberry from the bowl we had stolen from the kitchen.
“Those were supposed to be for the tart Marianne was baking tomorrow.”
With a seductive spark in his eye, he bent his head and kissed my nipple. “I’m having a tart right now.” I giggled when he raised his eyebrows playfully. I hadn’t laughed this much since I was a child. He had a gift for breaking through the stiffness, the formality I wore as a shield. He teased me mercilessly, until I was loose and easy and putty in his hands.
“You’re completely incorrigible.”
“Damn right,” he purred, placing a string of lazy kisses on my breasts. “Whatever that means.” Then he bit the tip of a ripe strawberry and let the sugary juice spill onto my stomach, pooling in my navel.
“What are you doing?”
“You asked about my work. This is your first lesson. How to recognize a pattern on a trading chart.” He took the juicy strawberry and ran it along my feverish skin. “This is called a head and shoulders pattern.” He drew on my body, up and over one breast, down the valley in between, then over the other breast. I giggled and squirmed.
“Sit still,” he crooned, licking the sticky juice off my body. “Or I’ll give you an F.” After his expert demonstration, we crawled onto the chaise lounge and watched the fire’s dull roar turn into a moan until it extinguished. He lay back in the chaise gloriously naked while I straddled his lap, the dying flames highlighting the perfect angles of his face. “I haven’t read that one,” he admitted, pushing the silk curtain of my hair back off my shoulder. I caught his hand and kissed the pale, pointy scars one by one, his gaze softening as he watched me.
“You haven’t read Jane Eyre? You haven’t read much,” I said between kisses. His sultry lips curved up.
“Jesus, you’re like one of those stern Catholic school teachers. Are you going to paddle me?”
“Would you like me to?”
A wicked glint flashed in his eyes before he kissed me, devouring my mouth. When his lips lifted, the space between his brows creased and his expression turned solemn. “I never did much reading until the accident. I was bedridden for a long time…that’s all I could do.”
The previously light mood turned to lead. As I caressed his beloved face, he closed his eyes and turned to kiss my hand, then covered it with his own, keeping it in place on his cheek. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered softly.
“All that time to think––that was the hardest part.”
“Tell me.”
“There isn’t much to tell.” His eyes darted away from mine, his voice flat. “I killed my wife.”
“That’s not true,” I argued quietly.
“I was driving, wasn’t I? I’m the one that drove the car off the side of the road. She died because of me.”
I had to tread this scarred territory lightly. I didn’t want to discourage him from opening up, and the emotional wound was still tender.
“Darling, look at me, it was an accident. You didn’t cause anything, and you certainly didn’t kill her. There was nothing you, or anybody else, could’ve done to prevent it from happening. As powerful and capable as you are, you’re still just a man. And I’m so grateful you were spared.”