Total pages in book: 184
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
But this is the first time I’m dancing when I know it’s him and I’m doing it for his pleasure. I’m doing it without any ulterior motives or agendas. I’m doing it because I want to do it and he wants to see me do it.
So of course the dress I choose to wear is that same white dress and those fake wings that he saw me in that first night. That I brought them with me on this trip should’ve been indication enough—again—that my engagement should never have happened, but it did and I’ll deal with it later.
Right now, I need to go out there—I’m in the bathroom—and dance for him.
I press a hand on my stomach—for some reason, my bare finger feels heavier and throbby—and blow out a breath. Then I open the door and step into the room. Which is bathed in a yellow light. I realize he’s turned out all the lights except the lamp on one of the nightstands.
I stare at that lamp for several seconds.
Because for some reason, I can’t look at him yet. For some reason, I’m shy. I know he’s there. He’s on the bed, propped up on the pillows. That much I could gather as soon as I stepped out, but actually looking at him is proving to be harder than I thought.
Closing the door behind me and keeping my eyes on my feet, I walk in farther. As if on stage, I come to stand in the center of the room, a few feet away from the foot of the bed. I should probably look up now. But still, I keep my eyes on my red-polished nails and wipe my sweaty palms down my thighs.
“Eyes on me.”
My heart is beating so loud that I don’t know how I heard him over the din. But I did and before I can give it any conscious thought, I look up.
And oh my God.
Oh my God, oh my God, he’s naked.
He’s…
Well, no.
He’s not naked. I spoke too quickly. Because he does have his jeans on. They’re dark blue bordering on black, just for the record, and they’re still there, molded over his legs. One bent at the knee, the other straight out.
His feet are large, and he’s got pretty toes. Just, again, for the record.
He also has his shirt on. It’s a light gray button-down and the sleeves are folded back up to his elbows.
But.
But. But. But.
The buttons of that button-down are open. And not just the top two or three like when we were on that video call the night before my play, no. They’re all open. All of them. Every last one of them, meaning I can see his chest.
I can see all of his torso.
And Jesus, Jesus.
I think… I think I’m about to drool.
Well, I think I’m already drooling and my mouth is drying out at the same time. So I have to lick my lips as I take him in.
I start with his throat. I know it’s innocuous. But I wanted to start with something I’ve seen before and wouldn’t completely make me thoughtless. Because I have so many other things to discover.
So I look at the deep triangle of his throat. Those shapely but dense collarbones that mold into the globes of his shoulders that I can’t see right now but I know are there. I also know they are heavy and solid and full of strength. Not only because he carries so much on his shoulders, so many things that I don’t know about. But also, they’ve carried me. I’ve used them to heave myself up on his body. I’ve used them to keep my balance.
I love his shoulders. I love them so much.
After that, we enter a dangerous territory because I reach his chest and as suspected through his countless button-down shirts and the coats he wears that he doesn’t even like, it’s massive.
It’s sculpted and densely packed with muscles.
In fact, his pecs look like slabs of stone.
They look like his shoulders. That they can carry all the weight in the world and I decide to make them my pillow as soon as we’re done here. His chest is where I’m going to sleep tonight and all the other nights to come.
And then I lose all my train of thought, all the promises that I’m making myself because abs.
He’s got them.
That legendary six-pack men have. Those muscles neatly arranged in a tight, ridged ladder that I’m assuming all the girls want to put their dainty feet on and climb. That all the girls want to lick and squeeze and bite. All the girls want to kiss and leave lipstick marks on.
I’m not going to lie, just the thought of girls getting to do that to him makes me mad. It makes me want to find all those girls and scratch their eyes out. It makes me want to tell the world that he’s mine.