Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 87522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“You don’t like the wine?” he says.
“No, it’s fine.”
“You made a face.”
“I did? I didn’t mean to.”
“You winced a little.”
“Did I?”
“Yeah, what were you thinking?”
I hesitate, unsure if I should tell him the truth. “Just thinking I’d rather be drinking Wild Turkey.”
Finally his lips turn upward and he laughs like he’s happy. “Why didn’t you ask for it, then?”
“I don’t know. You offered wine.”
“Ask for what you want here, Skye. Trust me, I plan on asking for what I want and then taking it.”
He picks up my wineglass and leaves the kitchen while his words spark embers in my body. In a few minutes, he returns with a lowball glass of the distinctive amber liquid.
“I’m a Wild Turkey fan myself,” he says.
“I know. You ordered it last night.”
“But you didn’t. Why?”
“I like a vodka martini with oysters.” Definitely not a half-truth, though I always prefer Wild Turkey.
“Good call, but this goes with everything.” He hands me the glass. “I added one ice cube. Hope you like it that way.”
“Yeah, I do. I think watering it down just a touch brings out the flavor.”
“A Wild Turkey connoisseur, huh?”
“I’m from Kansas, so—”
“You’re not from here?”
I take a sip of bourbon and smile. “You didn’t notice my lack of accent?”
“Yeah, but I just figured you were from somewhere else on the East Coast. Not the Midwest.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “You look like a city girl.”
“Kansas has cities.”
“True, but not like the East Coast.”
“Also true,” I say. “I come from a farm anyway.”
“A farm?” He lifts his eyebrows. “A real, honest-to-goodness farm?”
“Uh…yeah. Does that surprise you?”
“A little. Do you milk cows and everything?”
I roll my eyes. “I didn’t grow up on a dairy farm, Braden. I grew up on a corn farm. You know, knee-high by the Fourth of July?”
“That’s interesting.”
Interesting? Really? Corn is the most uninteresting thing on the planet, to my way of thinking.
“Why did you leave?”
I can’t help a short laugh. “Because I’ve taken about all the photos of corn I want to take in my career.”
“Right, photography. Makes sense.” He gazes at me, his eyes twinkling but never leaving mine, as he takes the last sip of his wine. “Ready for dinner?”
I’ve only had two small sips of my Wild Turkey. Not near enough to relax me. If I’m going to do this—leave my control at the door—I can’t depend on booze. I have to do it myself.
“Sure, let’s eat.” I take another small sip, resisting the urge to shoot it, ice cube or not. I set the glass down and lick the tangy spiciness from my lips.
His gaze burns into me.
“Fuck dinner,” he growls.
Chapter Eight
He grabs my hand and leads me to his bedroom.
Yes, the bedroom door. I’ve seen it before. It looms before me like the entrance to a fortress hiding jewels and treasures. My body is a warm mass of boiling honey, my heart a stampeding herd.
This is it.
This is going to happen.
I’m doing this. I’m not chickening out. I want this. I want him.
He pulls me toward his body and pushes his erection into my belly. “Feel that?” he whispers, tugging on my earlobe with his teeth. “Feel what you do to me. You won’t leave me wanting tonight, Skye. I’m going to fuck you.”
He lets me go and opens the door to his bedroom.
And it’s a sight to behold.
While the living room was black lacquer everywhere, the bedroom is masculine mahogany with navy-blue and ivory accents. As thrilling as his decor is, though, I’m drawn to the window that encompasses an entire wall overlooking the Boston Harbor.
I walk forward, as if in a trance. The glass is so clear that I feel like I could fall off the edge.
“One-way glass,” Braden says. “We can see out, but no one can see in.”
I’m only half listening. I’m much more interested in watching the yachts sailing into the marina. “Is one of those yours?” I ask.
“The Galatea, yeah. Ben’s got her out tonight.”
“Ben your brother?”
“Only Ben I know. He’s more into the boat thing than I am.”
“How can you not be into the boat thing? They’re so beautiful.”
“They’re a damned lot of work.”
“But don’t you—”
He tugs on my ponytail. “Do you really want to talk about boats right now?”
I turn, and now I finally appreciate the rest of the bedroom. His bed is king size. Honestly, it looks larger than a king to me. The headboard is magnificent—mahogany rungs with odd little metal pieces artistically placed just so. I’ve never seen anything like it before. The navy-blue comforter covering the bed is a shiny fabric, probably silk. The bed is on the main wall facing the large picture window. On one adjacent wall is a highboy dresser and chest, the mahogany matching the bed frame perfectly. Next to the highboy is an old-fashioned mahogany wardrobe, which is odd, because right next to it is a huge walk-in closet. The door is ajar, so I can see right into it. Why would he need an antique wardrobe?