Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
“By shooting a crow?”
“I’d be pissed off if someone tried to shoot me. Like I said, the feathery fuckers are smart. Anyway, to make a long story short, I got myself a grey curly wig from the dollar store and borrowed her cardi, doused in her perfume, eau de oldies, or whatever it is. Then one morning, I surprised the crow by being there before he was. I had a tea plate with some bacon on it. I bet you didn’t know bacon could be the basis of a beautiful friendship, did you? Anyway, I relocated him to the pixie house, and now the oldies love me, and the crow wakes me at five instead.”
“Sounds like a terrible deal.”
“You already know I’m an early riser.”
I ignore his tone. “That’s not always true. When I turned up with coffee that time—”
“I’d been dreaming of you.” Suddenly, my face is in his hands, and he’s staring at me with such happy intensity. “It’s always been you.”
The next instant, I’m on his knee, our change of position so fluid that my legs wrap around his waist like it was choreographed. My arms slide around his shoulders, so wide and so strong, a shaft of sunlight spilling between us like a line we shouldn’t cross.
“I should get back.”
“Relax. I just want to give you a hug. And if it turns to dirty sex, you can hate me later.”
“How about I just hate you now?”
“It would be easier, wouldn’t it?” he says, suddenly serious. “But some things you don’t get to choose.”
I carry on as though I hadn’t heard. “We’re not doing that anymore. Sex is off-limits.”
“Little love,” he murmurs, his voice is low and velvety. “You know the doors to the temple can’t close to the devout.”
“I have to get back to Annie,” I say, attempting to move from his lap. It would be so easy to get caught up in his words and the intensity of his gaze.
“Oh, Annie.” From promises of worship to taunts, he tightens his hold on me. “Would that be Annie, your friend, or mine?”
Did I say shivery? I meant irritated.
“You’re an ass,” I retort, pushing my palms flat against his chest.
“And you’re hot when you’re jealous.” God, that smirk. I want to ride it off—I mean, wipe it off.
“I am not—that would be juvenile,” I mutter, struggling against him as his arms band across my back. I’m annoyed and embarrassed because I’m more than a little turned on.
“No, little love. Hot.” The words curl around my ear, exploding inside at the exact moment as he rocks forward, bringing my centre into contact with his crotch. And he’s hard, goddammit. My insides light, sensation gushing through me. I think my mouth might be open, but no sound or words come out.
Because I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.
“I’m no more interested in Annie than I am Betty. You know that. Same the other way around. But the idea that you don’t want anyone else to have me turns me the fuck on.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?” I whisper, readjusting myself. Over his cock. Okay, so maybe I’m dry humping him.
“It gives me hope.” Hope is another word that lights up my insides. “And we’re gonna talk about that later when everyone has gone home.”
“No.”
“Yes.” Lifting my hand, he presses it between his legs. The throb of him against my palm is hot and insistent. I tip my chin and watch his eyes darken, feel his breath as my hand curls to grip him.
“Say it,” he whispers, his pelvis tipping a touch. “Say it, Kennedy.”
“Yes,” I whisper because I can’t think of anything else.
31
Roman
PRESENT
A DANGEROUS NUMBER
Kennedy and I spend the rest of Wilder’s birthday party glued at the hip. Hot for each other, but it’s more than that because things between us settle into a comfortable rhythm. We drink beer and socialise, and Kennedy genuinely seems to relax, almost relaxing into herself. One thing is for sure, the way I hold her, hug her, press kisses to the side of her face, no one is going to question what’s between us. Not even her. Pretty sure the word smitten was written all over my face.
Ah, Kennedy. She’s like a complex puzzle that I’m trying to figure out. I know she worries we don’t know enough about each other to be in love, but if she’d just open her eyes, I reckon she’d find it would all make sense. I’m fucking crazy about her! I get that there’s a lot about her I don’t know about her, and I know she doesn’t trust the idea of love. But the way I see it, I have a lifetime to prove it to her, to show her all the ways, big and small, love is the path for us all.
All I know is this feels huge, and this afternoon, I’ve felt the shift between us on almost a seismic level. It’s like before and after, and the after is like starting life all over again—a life full of wonder and sunshine and fucking flowers. It’s fucking amazing, but it’s not new because I feel like I fall in love with her and my son every single time I clap eyes on them. My love for Wilder is limitless, and the way I feel about Kennedy for having my son, for cherishing him, makes me feel like I should drop to my knees in gratitude. And how I feel about her, well, she’s the reason poets write sonnets.