Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 103061 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103061 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
When I could see again, I stared down at her, breathing hard. Her expression was something between exhilarated and shell-shocked. Releasing her wrists, I braced my hands above her shoulders. “Fuck. Are you okay?”
“I think so.” She laughed softly. “I can’t feel my arms. Are they still attached to my body?”
“Sorry I got so carried away.”
“You warned me it wouldn’t be gentle.” She smiled. “You were right—partly.”
“Partly?”
Her eyes gleamed wickedly. “You were gentle with your tongue.”
At the memory of her thighs open before me, my heart skipped a beat. Immediately I wondered when I could taste her again.
Withdrawing from her body, I stood, yanked up my jeans, and offered her a hand. She took it and rose to her feet, pushing her dress down. Her hair had come loose. “Could I use your bathroom?”
“Sure.”
She scooped up her underwear from the floor and disappeared into the small half-bath across from the kitchen, rubbing one wrist. Closing my eyes a second, I exhaled, hoping she wouldn’t wake up with bruises tomorrow. What the hell would she say if someone asked about them? Locating my shirt across the room where I’d flung it, I pulled it over my head and went upstairs.
In the master bathroom, I disposed of the condom, washed my hands, and put myself back together. When I came down again, she was sitting on the couch, her hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders. One arm was raised, and she was examining something on the side of her dress.
“Fuck,” I said, spotting the hole. “Did I rip your dress?”
“Yes, I think you did.”
I groaned. “God, I’m a dick. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine—it’s on the seam, so it can easily be stitched up.”
“Let me do it.”
She looked up at me in surprise. “Huh?”
“I’ll do it right now.” I headed for the stairs again. “Give me one minute to find a needle and thread.”
“You sew?”
“Yes, I sew,” I said, heading up the steps. “And I’m offended at your tone.”
She burst out laughing. “Sorry! You caught me by surprise, that’s all.”
It took me a few minutes to remember where I’d put the box my mother had given me with a tiny sewing kit in it, but I finally found it on the shelf in my closet. Tucking it under my arm, I grabbed a TCFD T-shirt from my dresser—sniffing it to make sure it was actually clean—and headed back downstairs.
“Here,” I said, handing her the shirt. “Give me the dress and put this on.”
She presented me with her back, lifting her hair off her neck. “Can you unzip it for me?”
I tossed my shirt on the couch and did as she asked, the intimate task sending a bolt of heat to my crotch. “I probably should have done this an hour ago, huh?”
“I mean, it might have saved you the trouble of sewing the rip, but then you wouldn’t have gotten to impress me with your hidden talent.” She grinned at me over one shoulder. “Although I’m learning you have several of those.”
Another bolt.
“Okay, you’re unzipped.”
Without turning around, she lowered the dress to her feet and stepped out of it, handing it over to me. But I stood there dumbfounded for a few seconds, distracted first by the gigantic faded bruise on her hip, and next by the barely-there, strappy black underwear she had on. I’d been so eager to get them off her, I hadn’t noticed them before.
“Jesus,” I said, staring like a schoolboy. “Do you always have things like that on under your clothes?”
“I’m not telling you,” she teased, pulling my T-shirt over her head. “You’ll just have to wonder about it every time you see me.”
I growled like a hungry bear. “Not. Fair.”
“Pretend you don’t see the bruise, okay?”
“Is that from your fall off the suitcase?”
“Yes.”
I touched her hip gingerly. “I’m sorry. I feel responsible.”
“You should.” She smoothed the front of my shirt over her chest. “Hey, you were wearing this shirt the day you moved in.”
“Was I?”
“Trust me on this.” She dropped onto the couch, tucking her legs beneath her. “I spent a ridiculous amount of time staring at your muscles out the front window. Now come on. I want to see you sew.”
Sitting down next to her, I opened the box. The dress had a black background, so I dug around for some black thread. It took me a few tries to get it through the eye of the needle, and Winnie giggled.
“Hey, listen,” I grumbled, tying a knot the way my mother taught me. “This isn’t easy for someone with big hands, okay?”
“You do have big hands,” she said, rubbing my leg. “But I like them. And I’m sorry I laughed. You’re just concentrating so hard, it’s adorable.”
I gave her a dirty look before turning the dress inside out. “I am not adorable. I am manly and tough. Even when I’m sewing.”