Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
She’s easy to fall into.
She could almost make me stop caring that it’s not noon yet.
I’m still drowsy as I slip my tongue slowly inside her mouth to glide against hers, savoring every moment before I draw back to take in the stunned, confused look on her flushed face with as much satisfaction for her dazed eyes as for the wet, plumped gleam of her lips.
“Now, what’s that face for?” I ask softly.
Elle blinks rapidly and shakes herself. “I just . . . I wasn’t expecting you to . . .”
So brazen, most of the time.
Yet so shy when she has to admit how she really feels around me.
“I know.” I catch a lock of her sleep-wild hair and tuck it behind her ear. “I don’t know what we’re doing, Elle. I wanted to kiss you, so I did.”
Her smile peeks out slowly like the sun finding its way past the clouds.
“Well, I could be okay with that.”
I smile and kiss her forehead—then sprawl back against the bed again, draping an arm over my eyes to block out the damnable light. “Could you be okay with turning off the sun and letting me go back to sleep?”
“Nope!” she chirps—and this time she pokes me in the ribs. “If you get up, I’ll make breakfast.”
“You can cook?” I lift my arm, just enough to peer at her.
“Hey!” Elle folds her arms over her chest. Pity. I was enjoying the sway of her naked tits. “What makes you think I can’t?”
“You’re a chaos monster.” Grumbling, I push myself up on one arm. “I don’t trust you not to burn down my kitchen.”
Her delectable lower lip thrusts out. “Oh, please. I’ve never burned down anyone’s kitchen. Only set one on fire once. Singed a little. A lot. A little a lot. Gran only had to replace three cabinets, I think?”
I stare at her flatly.
Elle lets out a dramatic sigh, slumping forward.
“Fine. You cook breakfast.”
With another look, I drag myself out of bed.
My entire body feels heavier before noon, slow and dull and sluggish. Sunlight is my kryptonite.
“Looks like I may have to if I want my house to survive intact.”
Elle grins and bounces out of bed, splendidly naked in the morning light.
The sunlight isn’t so terrible after all when it highlights her ass.
“Got you out of bed,” she gloats.
I’m torn between watching her peach curves and reaching for my dresser and something to cover my own nudity when the reality of this little monster’s manipulative ways truly sinks in.
Narrowing my eyes, I yank the drawer open and pull out a soft-worn button-down that’s been retired to housework, and I fling it at her head.
“Wretched girl.”
“Eee!” Elle squeals, flailing at the shirt. She ends up with it draped over her head and giggles, yanking it down. “You’re twice the asshole in the mornings, you know.”
“Just mornings?”
“You’re slightly more tolerable at night.” A sly smile tells me exactly how tolerable I am when she knows I sent at least six orgasms crashing through her last night. She wriggles into the shirt, then turns and sprints toward the door, the unbuttoned shirt flapping around her. “First one to the kitchen gets to cook!”
“Elle, you’re not—”
Too late.
She’s gone.
Thank God I’ve got excellent homeowner’s insurance.
I stare after her for a moment, then chuckle helplessly and pull a pair of pants out of the drawer.
This girl.
Life hasn’t been the same since she literally crashed into it—and I wonder if it ever will be again.
Right about now, I’d kill for a little normalcy.
Or perhaps I’m just feeling extra homicidal today.
You’ll never force me to admit aloud that I enjoyed frittatas and coffee with Elle this Monday morning, while she flicked through—cartoons.
Of course.
Coming in to work was actually pleasant with her excited chatter stealing my attention, one eye on my laptop and the other on her throughout the drive.
She was thrilled. Aunt Clara asked to see her pitch portfolio, which features her original characters, versus her work portfolio, which has a variety of styles and mediums tailored to win over new clients. Before I could express my curiosity to see it myself, Rick let us off at the office.
Where my lawyers are waiting.
With Marissa Sullivan and her lawyers.
I’ve been so wrapped up in Elle Lark that I half forgot we’re meeting this morning. The moment I walk into the office and see Marissa sitting in the reception area, impatiently tapping her heels, I know she’s bombed out again.
Piss-donkey drunk.
Her eyes are dilated, her lips slack, and her scowl is comically childish. The two men flanking her on both sides look uncomfortable. She’s every bit the spoiled Mafia princess with her handlers, minus the street wars and bloodshed.
Too bad she still raises enough corporate hell to count.
The moment Elle and I step off the elevator, her head comes up sharply. Marissa’s sharp glare hits me first before she turns it on Elle.