Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Words Brady never said. Not when I told him about my dream shop. He never really understood me, but I think Wilder does. “Thank you. I’m doing a terrible job keeping this a secret,” I say. “But you’re kind to be so supportive.”
“It’s easy with you,” he says gently. His thumb rises higher on my forearm. Stroking lightly. Pretty sure my wrist is a brand-new erogenous zone and his thumb is lighting me up. Flames lick under my skin.
Earlier in town, I wondered if his touching was for show. For Bibi. But it’s just us now, and he still can’t seem to stop. I feel a little mesmerized, and my voice is feathery as I tell him the details of the conversation, finishing with, “But the good news is she really hates Brady now and wants to beat him too—ideally with a pointy candy cane—and she promises she won’t tell Leo.”
Wilder smiles, an it’s all good here style one. “Good. Pointy candy cane or not, Leo doesn’t need to know. He looks out for Brady and frankly, he always has. It’ll be fine.” Another slide of his thumb down my wrist. Another hazy moment where I’m caught up in my boss’s touch. Where maybe he’s caught up in touching me.
There’s no show now—just him and me and this room that’s heating up even without the fireplace on.
Abruptly, he lets go of my wrist, but only so he can reach for my face and run his thumb along my jaw. I’m boneless with the tender way he’s touching me. “I don’t think I could be mad at you,” he says, with fondness but also…some angst. Like something is eating him up inside. Weighing on him.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yes.” He swallows it down, and whatever that weight was, it’s replaced by a delicious grin. “And we’re going to have so much fun destroying him.”
He sounds Machiavellian and powerful, and his confidence goes straight to my panties. I’m outrageously aroused. So much so that I leap away from him. “I need to shower.”
As I hustle to the en suite bathroom, I wonder how risky or risqué it’d be to jill off while I’m showering. What a hedonist I am. He already made me come this afternoon and I want to go again. News flash: I restrain myself. But fifteen minutes later, I return to the bed, wearing a cami and fuzzy pajama pants. Wilder’s under the covers now, but he pats the pillows for me. A paperback sits next to him on the bed.
“That whole fight earlier over the couch and the bed? We’re going to share and that’s that, like I said earlier,” I say. “But I also liked fighting with you. I mean, obviously I liked your apology. A lot.”
His eyes sparkle with dirty delight, but something else, too—something I can’t quite name. “I loved saying I was sorry.”
I shiver, wanting to say do it again, be a dick again, apologize all you like. But I’m a good girl, so I say, “But before the apology? When we were all…” I lift my hands, pretend I’m a cat scratching. “Going after each other? That was…kind of great.”
He nods tightly, an admission. “I liked it a lot too. It’s a little addictive.”
So are you.
But I’m sure now what I’m hearing in his voice. Right along with the desire, there’s restraint in there too. I flash back to what he said this afternoon when we arrived. I don’t want to get addicted. To practice. I need to respect that. Wilder’s thoughtful and caring, and even when he’s fiery and fighting, he never hits where it hurts. His remark earlier must have been his way of saying once was a slip-up, twice was understandable since it was an apology, but a third time would be nothing but deliberate.
“It is…addictive,” I say. But there’s nothing to be done about this addiction to him. I slide under the covers. It’s past midnight, so here goes this wild next step—sleeping next to my boss.
I try settling into the pillow. Paddling my feet under the covers. Getting comfortable. As if I can.
I’m wide awake, so I cycle back to something Wilder said in the car. Something that’s safer than all these rampant sex thoughts. I stack some pillows, then sit up a little higher. “You said it was your mom’s dream to go to art school?” I ask, prompting him.
He sets down his book on the nightstand and turns to me. There are a few feet of space between us. “Yes. It was.”
“Did you make it happen for her?”
A pleased smile shifts his lips. “I did.”
Warmth floods me. A sense of pride too. I’m proud of him for how he takes care of the people he loves. “Of course you did. I had a feeling.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“You like making people’s dreams come true, don’t you? You did it for me with the paint-and-sip class. And the suite at the football game. It’s your…” I don’t want to say love language because that’s presumptuous. I pause then finish with, “Your thing.”