Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
“You didn’t want to marry me,” she reminded me, shaken.
“But then I did,” I bit out, my eyes scorching the strip of earth between us.
“Do you regret it?” Her chest rose and fell to the rhythm of her breaths.
“No.” I closed my eyes. It was the best decision I’ve ever made. “You?”
“Yes,” she admitted, bowing her head. “I miscalculated my pragmatism-to-soul ratio, Riggs. I think . . . I think I did catch feelings.”
She was so incredibly sweet I didn’t know what to do with myself.
Drawing a breath, I said, “Come here, Poppins.”
She sauntered over wordlessly and stood in front of me. Apple trees arched above our heads, cocooning us from the world. I palmed her cheek, dropping my forehead to meet hers. Our hot breaths mixed together. Her heartbeats against my chest calmed me some.
“I wasn’t expecting this either,” I admitted, my mouth moving against hers.
“Expecting what?” she croaked.
“Wanting you so badly. All the goddamn time. Day. Night. The space in between.”
The thought of her conquered every second of my day. My hand skimmed her curves, gripping her hip and jerking her closer. My erection pressed between her legs, and I let out a growl.
“I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“Right back at you,” she whimpered, her lips latching to the side of my neck, her tongue peeking out to swirl against it. “What are we going to do about it?”
I lowered her to the ground, my hand reaching between her thighs to spread her open while I peppered wet kisses over her entire body through her clothes. She clawed at my hair, moaning with abandon, giving less than half a shit about her family being not too far from us.
“We can’t.” But as she said that, she also pushed me down between her legs.
“Says who?” I pulled her panties off, not even bothering to lift her dress up. It’d be hotter if she couldn’t see me at all when I went down on her.
“Society . . . ?” She groaned. “And this can’t be hygienic. People eat here.”
“I second that statement.” I licked her center, top to bottom, making her whole body tremble as I ate her out. “Besides, all I’m doing is giving you mouth to mouth.”
“That is not my mouth.”
“I’m an old man, remember? My eyesight isn’t what it used to be.”
She laughed throatily, bucking her hips, thrusting herself into my mouth. I slipped two fingers into her.
After she came against my mouth, I flipped her over, propped her up by the waist, and pounded into her. She cried out in ecstasy when she came, so I did what any gentleman would do and shoved her face in the dirt to stifle her moans so her family wouldn’t think she was being mauled by a coyote. Then I kept thrusting into her from behind, waiting and expecting the rush of a normal climax to run through me. This was what I did. I had meaningless sex and enjoyed it. But every time I was within reach of an orgasm . . . every time I thought I was going to come . . . I kept picturing faceless Cocksucker knocking on our door.
And I couldn’t.
I couldn’t fucking come.
So I did something I’d never done before. I let loose a low grunt and pretended to find my release. I stayed inside her for a few more seconds before withdrawing and knotting the condom quickly so she couldn’t see it was empty. She stood up, pushing her dress down, looking flushed and happy.
Her hair was a mess, full of leaves and tiny twigs, and she had a mud patch on her left tit. “I’m losing the apple-picking battle.”
“Don’t worry, I’m at least one foot taller than Tim and Kieran.” I patted her head. “I’ll give you those apples if I have to touch the sky to get them.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
DUFFY
I ended up winning the apple-picking battle. It wasn’t even much of a competition. Riggs did a wonderful job filling my basket to the brim. And yes, there was a euphemism there. #SorryNotSorry.
The rest of the weekend was a blur of drinks with my childhood mates (Riggs made all of them swoon, and one even tried to take him home, thinking he was just my flatmate, which gave me a small heart attack), a visit to Tim and Kieran’s chippy (Riggs approved, wolfing down three servings; I found pride in that, since BJ absolutely detested anything fried), and a day in Camden, going through old record shops and secondhand finds.
It was both lovely and soul crushing, knowing the interview letter from the immigration office would come in the mail any day now. After that, there’d be no need for us to physically stick together, and we’d go our separate ways.
But the haze of vacationing with my fake husband didn’t evaporate until we were tucked in the cab on our way back to our Manhattan flat. Something about the tall, imposing buildings and unbearably fast pace of the city anchored me back to reality. With it came the reminder that I had pressing issues to tend to. None of them related to BJ, my visa, and finding a job.