Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
He hugs me tighter.
I close my eyes, feeling it. “Is this you fulfilling your duty of holdin’ me tight every day? Thought you’re only supposed to hold me after we fuck.”
“I hold you whenever I need to.”
I try to smile but can’t. “Well, I appreciate it … more than I can be trusted to say, apparently, since every time I open my mouth, I fuck somethin’ up.”
“She’ll forgive you.”
“Oh, now you know her better than me?”
“I know she cares about you.” His lips come up to my ear. “I care about you, too. You’re a tough guy not to care about.”
I wrinkle up my face. “What’s that mean?”
“Means I can’t resist holding you when you’re down. I can’t resist making sure you’re okay. I like to take care of you.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Oh, I’m sure of it. But sometimes …” His words are whispers now, tickling my ear. “… it’s nice to let your guard down a bit and let someone else do the caring.” His hands gently run up and down my arms, calming me. “Everything will get figured out in time.”
“In a week’s time?” I ask bitterly.
“Don’t focus on how much time we’ve got or don’t got. Focus on what’s right here and now. Focus on my fingers.” He brushes them down the front of my body, then starts stroking my chest. “How do they feel?”
“Fuckin’ nice.” He grazes my nipples, then gives one of them a pinch. I grunt. “You tryin’ to turn me on or somethin’?”
“Maybe. Is it working?”
“Uh, yeah?”
“Good.”
He pinches the other nipple, catching me off-guard. I gasp, let out a moan, then scowl at him over my shoulder. “The hell is this? Sexual distraction therapy?”
“Sure. Let’s call it that.”
“Bridge …”
Something nearby buzzes. Bridger lifts his head, as startled by the noise as I am, then finds his phone on the arm of the couch. He grabs it and reads a text. “Pete,” he tells me. “Says Juniper’s fine. The two of them went back to her place for the night.”
I sigh. “Probably for the best.”
He makes a face. “Also told me to punch you in the arm for being a dick.” He sets his phone back down. “Too bad. I’d rather dick you in the butt for being in my arms.”
“Dick me in the—?” I pull away and turn around. “The hell?”
He chuckles. “What? Don’t want me to dick you in the butt?”
“Stop sayin’ it like that.”
“Dick. You. In. Your. Cute. Bubble.” He comes in close. “Butt.”
He flattens me to the ground and crawls over me, grinning. When I’m about to tell him to get off me, his fingers dig into my sides, and instead of shouting, I start laughing uncontrollably. He tickles me without mercy for ten excruciating seconds before his lips suddenly find mine, and everything goes from being chaotic to being totally fucking intimate and sweet.
I guess that’s a brain-resetting trick of his. It works. His lips dive into my neck next, and then there’s nothing I can do to fight off him—or the desire that’s now taking me over from head to toe.
“I got an idea,” I whisper in his ear. “Let’s go upstairs to the guestroom and fuck on Pete’s bed.”
His eyes go wide. “You crazy?”
But five seconds later, we’re tearing up the stairs. And on that guestroom bed, our clothes fly off—everywhere. Bridger learned his lesson and doesn’t fold a damned bit of it.
And after we screw our brains out, I’m left naked, gasping for breath in his arms, as the pair of us lie on that bed staring up at the ceiling, as happy as can be, our spirits floating across it like kites of a different kind.
“This feels so wrong,” he groans. “Sweating up Pete’s bed like this. So fucking wrong.”
“I know,” I answer, giddy.
He turns to me. “Hey, you wanna go on my jog with me in the morning? It’s my sacred time, so … it’s kind of a big deal that I’m inviting you. Just so you know.”
“Just so I know what?”
“How much I think of you.” He kisses my cheek, then pauses. “Is that too much? To say something like that? I can pull back with the cutesy sentimental shit … if we really are just two dudes who fuck around and nothing more.”
Every time he says that, echoing whatever nonsense I said just a day or two ago, I find myself cringing inside. Those stupid words cheapen whatever it is we have. We’re so much more than guys who just have sex. He knows it. And I sure as hell know it.
“Yeah,” I answer him. “I’ll go on that mornin’ jog with you.”
He lets out a breath of relief. “Thanks.”
“And don’t you dare pull back with the cutesy sentimental shit,” I go on. I put a kiss on his soft, chiseled cheek and, with a smirk, add: “Babe.”