Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
“Looks great.”
I lead him into the back. “This is where we’ll do the baking. Donuts, pastries, that sort of thing. Maybe breakfast sandwiches when we’re up and running.”
“You’re already thinking about how to expand. I’m impressed.”
“It’s a breakfast place. The menu’s pretty standard.”
“Still.” He runs a hand over a workbench. “How much of this did you design?”
I soften a bit. “All of it,” I admit. “Jamila was into the big ideas, which left me with the details.”
“How’d you learn how to set up an industrial kitchen?”
“The place was halfway finished when we moved in because of the I. Mostly I had to look up stuff online, like read a bunch of articles, a couple books, watched some videos. That sort of thing.”
He nods, looking impressed. “I have professional chefs that work for me who couldn’t do something like this.”
“It’s not ready,” I say, shifting uncomfortably. I’m not used to this much positive attention.
“It’ll be great when it’s done.” He faces me, eyes locked onto mine. “I’m already proud of you.”
I flush, feeling bizarrely happy to hear him that it, even though it’s coming out of nowhere. “I haven’t even opened yet,” I mumble, looking down at the floor. “But thanks. I guess. Even though that’s super weird.”
“You’re my wife.” He comes closer. “I want you to know how I feel.”
“I didn’t realize a man like you had feelings.”
He laughs and stops inches from me. “I feel plenty, my something.” His voice is pitched low. “I feel too much.”
“Somehow, I don’t believe you. Wanting to have sex isn’t an emotion.”
“Passion isn’t an emotion? Desire?”
“They are, but—”
“But you think I’m crude. That all I am is horny. Like all I want is to fuck you all the time. Is that what you mean?”
“Yes,” I say, meeting his gaze. “That’s what you’re basing this whole relationship on, aren’t you? On a one-night stand.”
“Would you believe me if I said that the part I think about most isn’t the sex?”
“No.”
“Then good, I won’t say it.” He tilts my chin up, his hand lingering on my cheek. “Instead, I’ll tell you this. I think about you all the time. About your lips, about your tongue. About your moans. The way it felt to make you come. I think about Vegas, about our honeymoon. I can’t stop thinking now that you’re in my life and it’s driving me insane.”
“Sounds like a personal problem to me.”
“It’s very much your problem too.” He leans down, lips brushing my neck. “You distract me too much.”
“Am I supposed to feel bad?”
“You’re supposed to let me make you feel good. That’s all I want.”
“How noble. I guess you get nothing from it then?”
“Nothing at all.” His lips brush my neck. “I feel nothing when you’re shaking under my hands.”
“I don’t shake.”
“Moan. Quiver. Gasp.”
“I do no such thing.” I close my eyes as his finger grips my hair and his lips come near mine. “I feel nothing when you touch me.”
“Your skin flushes pink. You moan my name, over and over. You say it like each syllable tastes like honey. You love saying my name as my tongue laps you up.”
“I like singing in the shower. I like chanting at baseball games. I definitely don’t like saying your name.”
“Liar. Should I test you?”
“Sorry, what happened to lunch?”
His hands move down to my hips. “I changed my mind. I’m not hungry.”
“Convenient.”
“Not really.” He lifts me up suddenly, putting me down onto a workbench. I yelp in surprise, then lean back against the wall, my heart racing. He stares at me with a shocking need. “I want something much better now.”
“You keep your hands off me when we’re alone in bed together, but you can’t help yourself when we’re in the middle of my half-built shop? You realize this is a work hazard, right?”
“Tell me to stop.” He leans forward, breathing me in.
“Will you stop?”
“No.”
Then he kisses me. I kiss him back, unable to help myself. As much as I know it will complicate things, he feels good damn good, and I want him too. It’s my stupid horny brain screaming at me to make very bad decisions, which I keep doing, over and over again.
I sink into his kiss. I taste him, whimper gently, let him sit me up and pull my shirt off. That’s probably a bad idea—Roger and the guys could come back at any moment—but then I remember he gave the crew two hours for lunch.
Bastard planned this.
Too late though. He’s already kissing my cheek, my neck, my bra unhooking, his teeth biting my nipples. I grip his hair, gasping as he teases my breasts and kisses me again, my tongue diving into his mouth, his tongue diving back, swirling with mine, our tastes mingling and building, the heat between my legs overwhelming.
I want more, I need more, and I don’t want him to stop.