Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 21789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 109(@200wpm)___ 87(@250wpm)___ 73(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 109(@200wpm)___ 87(@250wpm)___ 73(@300wpm)
In other words, the opposite of me.
That doesn’t seem to matter to my dick, though. Clearing my throat hard, I step closer to my work table, so my erection won’t be visible on camera. I should probably stop staring at her so I don’t tent my jeans on television, but I can’t. I’m mesmerized by her slender fingers playing with a little gold locket around her neck. I’m fascinated by her plump, pink upper lip and the way her skin turns peachy under the television lights. Or maybe my interest is doing that.
If I got under that dress, I bet she’d have on no frills, white panties.
Bet she’ll blush when I tug them off.
Virgin.
Yeah, you’re a little virgin, aren’t you, sweetheart?
A buzzer goes off loudly overhead and I lurch for my firefighting gear, before I remember I’m not at the firehouse, I’m on a reality baking show. Christ.
Plowing my fingers through my beard, I get down to business, combining the ingredients inside the standing mixer and flipping it on. I have no idea if I’ll manage to put a decent cake together, but one thing is for certain. I can’t wait to feed her something I made.
The intensity of that need catches me off-guard.
I’ve never wanted to feed, care for and please a woman like this. We haven’t even traded words yet and yet…I ache to be responsible for her.
I don’t like her sitting between the two male judges. If they didn’t seem wrapped up in the female contestants, I think I might have already kidnapped her out the back door. I’m actually resentful over the task at hand, because it’s keeping me from asking her out.
And I will be asking her out.
Will she say yes? Even though I’m a loud-ass firefighter from Queens and she looks like she belongs on yacht sipping champagne?
I glance up and find her rubbing the gold locket on her mouth, her hazel eyes zeroed in on my biceps—and I throw back my head and laugh.
Oh yeah, she’s going to say yes.
Pretty sure that makes me the luckiest son of a bitch alive.
2
Quinn
I can hear my mother’s voice now.
Quinn, this is not how a lady behaves.
The locket is hot between my fingers and vaguely, I wonder if my excessive body heat is going to melt the piece of jewelry. Wouldn’t that make for great television?
As subtly as possible, I shift in my seat, but the discomfort doesn’t go away. There is a flickering little pulse at the apex of my thighs and the firefighter is responsible. I’m not sure how he is compelling me into feeling like a sex-starved creature, but there’s no doubt in my mind it’s his doing. If I had the option of cooling down now, however, I don’t think I would take it.
I’m always in control. Everything in its place. Everything neat and orderly.
It’s kind of nice to have my libido running the show for a little while, as opposed to my brain. Oh, I can’t make a habit out of it or anything. Nor can I possibly act on the impulses making my face…and nether regions…flame, but it’s lovely to fantasize.
I shake myself when I realize I’m picturing my panties dangling from the fireman’s teeth.
Good Lord, Quinn. Get a hold of yourself.
That big, booming laugh.
Yes, I think it’s the laugh that’s drawing me to him so deeply.
I’ve never just let a sound fly out of my mouth like that. My laughter must be ladylike, even-tempered. Don’t be shrill, dear. That’s another thing my mother used to say to me while growing up.
I’ve lived in this comfort zone of proper behavior for twenty-four years, but lately I’ve been dying to break out of the mold. These days, when I place a bite of perfectly cooked langoustine into my mouth, I have the most inappropriate urge to throw my arms up in a touchdown pose. Last night, I was at Le Bernadin, sampling their menu for my critique, and I was treated to a decadent Mont Blanc with a rum, caramel mousse—and I wanted to pull up my skirt and dance on the table. Right there in front of the nervous chef.
I didn’t, of course.
But I bet a hundred dollars that Desmond the firefighter wouldn’t even hesitate to throw up his arms or laugh or have whatever reaction he desired.
There’s something so appealing about that confidence.
If only I could go to a restaurant and order some for myself.
Are there classes for learning how to be oneself?
Maybe a crash course on confidence?
If there was, Desmond would be a fantastic teacher.
And now I’m back to thinking of my panties hanging from his teeth.
Sitting up straighter in my chair, I try to observe all three contestants fairly, but my gaze continually strays back to Desmond. At six foot four (at least), he fairly demands attention. Throw in the beard, the twinkling humor in his eyes and the tattooed biceps—and he is the furthest thing from my type imaginable.