Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
It’s totally whacked.
Gracen peruses the contents of the fridge for a moment before reaching in and pulling out a pie dish covered with tinfoil. I’m thoroughly disappointed when she closes the door and her body falls back into the muted shadows cast by the small light over the stove.
I silently watch as she places the pie dish on the island counter, rummages through a drawer for a fork, then peels back the foil.
That’s the Gracen I know. She wouldn’t bother with a plate and to cut out a slice. She’d dig right in with her fingers if a fork wasn’t available.
She forks out some of the pie and I have no clue what type it is. I imagine the tingle of cinnamon if it’s apple, or perhaps the sweet-tart burst of flavor from cherries. Regardless, I stare fascinated and dick raging hard as she opens those plump lips to take a bite.
Her eyes close and her head tilts back slightly, and I’m done when a low, sexy moan bubbles out of her that’s loud enough to carry across the living room to me.
“Is it that good?” I ask, my voice hoarse and gruff.
She’s unflappable as ever. Most people would scream and probably curse if someone spoke to them unexpectedly from the shadows.
Gracen merely jolts slightly, her eyes snapping over toward where I’m sitting. She stares at me a moment and I wonder if the darkness conceals my attraction to her that’s thumping between my legs.
Giving a slight cough, she clears her throat and asks oh so politely, “Would you like a piece?”
God, would I ever like a piece.
And not of pie.
I don’t answer her, but push up from the chair. I tilt slightly to the left but correct myself. Ambling over to the wet bar that sits at the base of the stairs and separates the two living areas, I concentrate on walking a straight line so I don’t appear as drunk as I feel.
I quietly pour another two fingers of bourbon and swish it suavely around my glass. It spills over the top and onto my hand.
“Shit,” I mutter as I turn back around to look at her. She’s digging back into the pie, thoroughly ignoring me.
I don’t like being ignored.
Walking around the island counter, I come to stop beside her and set my drink down. My gaze drops and I see she’s eating a cherry pie. Christ, that’s sexy. I’m pretty sure there’s some rock song out there about a half-naked woman eating cherry pie.
“You’re drunk,” she says quietly, pushing her fork back down into the pie. It comes up with a single cherry on it. I watch fascinated as her pink tongue darts out for a tiny taste before it disappears into her mouth.
“What makes you think I’m drunk?” I ask, my tongue feeling very thick and heavy from the alcohol.
“You’re lurching all over the place and you smell like a distillery,” she says in a bland voice, which leads me to believe she’s not offended by it.
“You shouldn’t be walking around the house dressed like that.” My eyes rake down the side of her body. I can’t tell if her nipples are still hard, because her arms are in the way, but the curve of her ass is stunning.
“Nothing you haven’t seen before,” she returns in a bored voice, and I realize in this moment she doesn’t care one bit if I still find her attractive. She’s not affected by me the way I am over her, and that chafes just a bit.
Gracen covers the pie, which tells me this conversation is fast winding down. But the alcohol in me doesn’t want this little encounter in a dark kitchen to end. Especially when I just spent the last several hours at a party being absolutely tempted by no one because they weren’t Gracen Moore.
My hand wraps around her wrist and I pull her arm away from her body. She’s forced to turn and face me, and her expression reveals nothing. From the glow of the light from the stove, she looks like I could be getting ready to discuss a grocery list with her.
I take her other wrist in my free hand and slowly stretch both her arms outward and away from her body. My eyes sweep down her, wanting to stay pinned on those nipples, which are indeed quite visible against the thin cotton of her T-shirt, but I let my gaze continue.
Down past the short edge of her tee, which reveals the smooth skin of her lower abdomen, right to the pristine, virginal white panties covering her pussy.
My mouth waters at the sweetness I know rests just beneath that material. God, I used to love going down on Gracen. I could seriously fuck her with my tongue for hours on end and be quite satisfied with just her moans and cries. Of course, I seem to remember she was equally as generous with her mouth, and that does nothing to dissuade my hard-on.