Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 58840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 294(@200wpm)___ 235(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 294(@200wpm)___ 235(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
“I’m Zane,” he says, holding out a hand to me after Becca heads to the bar.
It’s a formal gesture that takes me by surprise, and I’m charmed when his big fingers wrap around my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. He holds on just long enough to thoroughly drench my panties.
“Brittany,” I say, finally lowering my eyes, letting my lashes flutter.
“Your hair caught my attention, Brittany.” His gaze drifts to my auburn waves before returning to my face. “It’s fiery.”
“I hope you like fiery.” My eyes drop to his mouth and back, letting him know what kind of heat I’m talking about.
“I do, very much,” he says, and the look he gives me is hotter than all our talk of fire.
Becca returns to deliver our drinks, and Zane holds his glass out next to mine. “To tonight,” he says, waiting for me to clink his glass. My throat moves in a swallow before I even take a sip, because my mouth is watering. The fish is fully on the hook and I’m about to pull it into the boat.
Okay, no more fish analogies. Zane is way too sexy for any thoughts of fish.
“To tonight,” I say, noticing flecks of gold in his irises.
“Do you live around here?” he asks, making me wonder if we’ll even bother to stick around long enough to finish our drinks.
“Not too far. Where are you from?”
“Charlotte.”
“Nice place.”
He answers with a short nod. “It’s much nicer here. Great beaches. Do you like to go to the beach?”
“In the off season,” I say. “It gets too crowded in the summer.”
He nods again, taking a swig of his bourbon. “Have you lived here long?”
“Almost fifteen years.”
He continues to ask questions, which surprises me, because most men prefer to tell jokes and stories and hear the sound of their own voices. When I ask questions in return, Zane’s answers are brief. I learn that he’s a personal trainer — which makes a lot of sense with a body like his — but when he asks about my job, I’m purposely vague, saying I’m a cashier. I don’t explain that I’m a cashier at a male revue club, because it could either scare him off or prompt more questions that I don’t feel like answering.
My job isn’t important tonight. None of this conversation is, really, but I’m enjoying looking at him while we talk. I may or may not be making a mental list of what I want to do to him when we’re alone.
Conveniently, we finish our drinks at the same time, but maybe that’s because Zane adjusts his pace to match mine.
“Ready for another?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I had a head start, but you go ahead.”
“I’m actually good with one tonight. Want to get out of here?”
Do I? I’m ready to race him out the door.
2
BRITTANY
He follows me to my apartment, and our hands are all over each other as soon as we’re inside the door. I go for his arms first, because those bulging biceps have been making me squirm ever since I first saw him. They’re solid, and so satisfying to squeeze. Next, my hands slide around to his broad back and up into that dark head of hair, which is about to get even messier.
Meanwhile, he’s tugging my hips against him while his mouth takes greedy tastes of my lips, my cheeks, and my neck.
I try to find the willpower to break apart from him long enough to lead him into my bedroom, but when I don’t, he peels my shirt off and bends to kiss my chest, the bristly hair of his beard setting off sparks with each tilt of his head. We’re standing right in the middle of my living room, this gorgeous man bowed in front of me, too many clothes still on his body.
Despite the fact that I want very badly to feel his mouth on my breasts, I pull his head back up to mine so that I can both kiss him and unbutton his shirt at the same time. He helps me, and soon he’s shedding the shirt to reveal a sleeveless white undershirt beneath. The hard-cut definition of his chest is visible through the thin fabric, and my hands roam all over his upper body like a starving person at a buffet.
I’ve never been with a man who was built like this. All he’d need to do to get personal training clients is take off his shirt.
“Your body is incredible,” I tell him, sliding my hands down over the delicious flared muscles at the sides of his chest, the ones I’m going to hang on to when he’s stretched out above me in a few minutes.
“Wait’ll you see what it can do,” he says roughly, pulling me close again, searing my neck with his mouth.
I’m not a swoony type, but he has me weak at the knees. He’s just so much man, and I haven’t even gotten to the best part yet.