Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 57779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
“I think I’d have liked your mother.”
Just not my father, I think, and I can feel my smile softening. It’s right about then that the waiter arrives to check on us. After a bit of shuffling, there is a delightful single dessert sitting between us and coffee in our cups. “This is my all-time favorite Hawaiian dessert,” Ethan explains. “It’s Haupia cake, which is basically coconut cake with coconut pudding inside. There’s crushed pineapple underneath the icing.
We both reach for our forks, and I haven’t missed the fact that we are sharing, or how intimate this little—or rather, huge—dinner has become. “I’m so stuffed, but there is no way I’m not trying your favorite cake.” My fork digs into the obviously moist cake, and soon I’m savoring the delicious treat. “This is amazing. I think I need to take one home when I’m not this full.” I set my fork down and reach for my coffee. Dinner is almost done. I’m not sure if I need caffeine to sober me up, or more alcohol to ensure I don’t get cold feet. Because the well-lubricated part of my brain won’t say no to him walking me to my room or more.
And I’m not sure if that’s smart.
I’m also not sure there is any amount of coffee that will cure just how drunk I am on this man.
A few minutes later, the meal has been charged to his room, and we’re standing—okay, I sway slightly, and he catches my waist, steadying me. My hand lands on his impressively hard chest, and somehow my hips soften into his. The burn between us is wicked, and every part of me is on fire. “I’m going to walk you to your room,” he says softly. “Unless, of course, you object.”
“I thought you said you’d walk me to my room if I asked you to?”
His eyes light. “Ask me to walk you to your room,” he urges.
“That sounds a bit like an order.”
“I’m simply not ready to use up the question you promised me. Asking you is a question.”
“If I asked you to walk me to my room, does that count as my question?”
“Yes,” he says.
“I think we need a new deal.”
Amber heat glints in his eyes. “No new deal,” he says. “Ask me to walk you to your room.”
No regrets, I think. I have to ask him. So what if he has a question and I do not? There’s really nothing he can ask me that can scare me off right now, not with this much expensive scotch whiskey coursing through my body. Or is it whiskey scotch? Not that it matters. Whatever it is, it’s in my body, numbing my nerves and inhibitions, affecting my decision-making. It’s encouraging me to just go for it with Ethan—all in, and no looking back. And so, I do, but with a twist that saves my question—just in case I need it. “Walk me to my room, Ethan.”
Chapter Eight
At my demand, Ethan’s lips curve. “And you saved your question. What will you ask?” He cups my face and leans in close, his lips near my ear, his breath a warm tickle on my neck. “How about, please?”
Oh my. This man is the undoing of me, without a doubt. My nipples pucker and my thighs are slick as he eases back and adds, “But it’s your question to use how you wish.”
Somehow, I’m witty enough to say, “Please is a statement, not a question.”
He laughs, and the deep rumble slides through me and settles low in my belly. I decide I could become addicted to that sound, and the man who owns it, far too easily for my own good. But I’m in this now. I’m not turning away.
His hand slides away from my waist, and the heat of moments before is instantly cooled, leaving me feeling a wicked craving for his touch once again. But I don’t have to wait long to fulfill that hunger. The fingers of one of his hands catch my fingers, and the connection is back between us, electric, charged in every way. Tingling slides up my arm and across my chest, and my nipples tighten into hard little balls. I don’t think it’s the boldness of holding hands in the restaurant that affects me, but rather the promise of the boldness that awaits us just upstairs.
In a hotel room.
Where we will do all kinds of naughty things to each other.
We should be walking, leaving this place, but instead, we’re just standing here, staring at each other, and there’s this fluttery sensation in my chest. He’s studying me, searching my face, and I think he’s trying to judge my commitment to what’s about to happen.
“No regrets,” I say. “You don’t have to hold onto me like I’m going to dart away. I’m not.”
“You sure about that?”