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)
With all those thoughts running through my head, I don’t think I know what I’m going to say as I present her with the tiny cylindrical blossom. Yet when the words are out, I don’t regret them.
“Let’s just do it.”
“Do it?” she repeats, cute in her doubt.
“Yeah. Forget wine in wine bars, lost IDs, and noisy-arsed clubs that won’t let us in. Let’s skip all the boring preliminaries and jump straight in at the champagne end.”
“Champagne?” She laughs. She looks delighted. And so fucking delightful. “Why, what are we celebrating?”
“You and me getting hitched.”
Her laughter? I’m pretty sure I’d be happy to hear every day from now until eternity. It’s rapturous and infectious and, in short, fucking perfect.
“You’re hilarious,” she utters.
I’ve got three older brothers who seem to think the same thing. Except, “I’m serious.” To the very marrow of my bones.
Her gaze dips to her shoes, high and strappy. Total fuck-me heels. She’s a mass of contradictions, I think. Those heels are as high as Sydney Tower, the tiny dress clinging to her body, its shimmer drawing attention to her like disco balls. Her long, sleek ponytail just begging to be wrapped in my fist. And those eyes, as dark as night, but the kind filled with dreams of innocence.
She is a lamb in wolf’s clothing.
And I want to devour her.
“Marriage isn’t something I’d scheduled in for this weekend.” As her eyes rise to mine, she brushes the pink blossom against her bottom lip, back and forth and back again in the most innocently erotic sight I have ever seen. I stifle a groan, my body reacting like a plucked spring.
“You have a schedule?”
She rolls her eyes. Cute. As. Fuck. “Well, yeah, it being April’s birthday and all.”
“But you’re working off schedule now.” My voice is all gravel, my eyes glued to that fucking flower.
“True. But sadly, I didn’t pack my veil.”
“Good. I don’t want you to hide from me.” Reaching out, I pluck the flower from her fingertips. Her eyes go all pupils as I slide it over her ear.
“Have you always been a slave to your impulses?” Her breath is a trembling, fractured thing as my thumb glides around the shell of her ear, my hand sliding to cup the nape of her neck.
If I was truly a slave to my impulses, I’d press her against the nearest hard surface and let my fingerprints mark every inch of her skin. Instead, my eyes dip to her lips, part warning, part declaration. “Believe it or not, this is me being subtle.”
“Not,” she breathes, fighting a small smile. “I believe it . . . not.” She inhales another breath as I close the space between us, tracing my lips over hers.
“I can be subtle,” I whisper. “I can be persuasive, too.” Using my thumb, I tilt her head, my other hand spreading across her hip. My mouth tastes and teases, pulling a little on her lower lip. “Say yes, Kennedy. Let me worship you. Let me give you the wedding night you deserve.”
“You shouldn’t say things like that.” Her fingers find the lapels of my jacket, curling there. “I might think you’re being serious.”
I cut off further verbal responses, my lips a sudden demand. A demand she meets as she tips up onto her toes and releases a tight, hungered sound. My hand slides to her back, greedy and possessive, a burst of adrenaline shooting through my veins as my fingertips meet her bare skin. The kiss becomes deeper, wetter, and I groan as her tongue sweeps against mine. Ours is a connection of pure need and energy as I back her up against the tree as though I’d happily fuck her there.
The door to the wine bar opens, laughter then people filling the sidewalk behind me.
“Wow.” Kennedy exhales a tiny, tremulous breath as her heels return to the ground. “That was kind of intense.”
“It was something.” I rake my hand through my hair, trying to ignore the tremor in it.
“We . . .” Her throat moves with a swallow, her eyes hesitant. “We could just go back to the hotel.”
Then it’s my turn to swallow because, yeah. Fuck yeah. I want that, but the thought of ending the night there doesn’t feel right enough. Big enough, I guess. I’m not a slave to my impulses, but I do believe in signs. And all signs point at Kennedy being the kind of girl I want for more than one night. As mental as that sounds—as crazy as that seems—how do I convey all that without sounding like I’m totally off my rocker?
“Do you believe in love at first sight?” My hand’s still curled against her hip, the other lifting her hand to press it over my heart as we begin to sway in time to the melody drifting from the still open doorway.