Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 39338 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 157(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39338 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 157(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
“Hey—oh. Shit,” he rumbles now, bracing his forearm on the doorframe and sweeping me head to toe with a thirsty look. “Britta, you look . . .” His swallow is audible. “Jesus.”
A pleasureful blush sweeps into my cheeks before I can play it cool. Which is not like me at all. Men in the bar compliment me regularly, and I feel exactly zilch. Maybe I’m just relieved to see him after two long, confusing months. He’s my friend, after all! “Thanks.”
When his eyes find mine again, they’re darker than before. He’s visibly drinking me in, ounce by ounce, and he’s doing a very poor job of hiding it. “You’re not going out on a . . . date. In that little purple dress. Are you, Britta?”
“No.”
His hand is still wrapped around the doorjamb like he’s contemplating ripping it off. “Good.”
“We agreed not to,” I remind him, flashing my wedding band.
He does the same. “Oh, don’t worry, I remember.”
“Has it been . . . hard for you?” Why am I not breathing? “Not to date?”
A muscle dives sideways in his cheek. “Not remotely. You?”
“No,” I admit.
“Good.” Before I can respond to the ragged relief in his voice, he’s taking a step forward, a lump traveling up and down in his throat. “Now, need to know where you’re going in that dress, please.”
“A concert. Wesley Stapleton? He’s playing at the Amphitheater tonight.” I don’t know why I put on such an excited smile. Maybe I’m trying to convince myself it’ll be fun going alone. “My friends were going to come with me, but their broods came down with the plague.”
I expect him to forbid me to go alone (or try), so I’m surprised when a groove forms between his brows, eyes softening. “You’re going to a concert by yourself?”
That heinous pressure is back behind my lids. “Yeah!” I laugh. “It’s fine.”
“Can I come with you?”
The tightness in my chest ebbs, and suddenly, I’m able to blink back the moisture threatening to spill out. “Really?”
He looks a little incredulous that I had to ask. “Yeah. Of course. I’ll drive.”
“Okay.” I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, gratitude making me feel almost light headed. “Um . . . well. We don’t have to leave for a while. Come in and get your mail.”
“Right.”
I watch Sumner duck beneath the door on my way to the kitchen area where I left his mail sitting on the counter. Swimsuit issue sitting on top. After a quick peek over my shoulder to make sure he isn’t looking, I do something wrong. Something bad. Not only do I commit what I’m pretty sure is a federal offense called mail tampering, but when I use my elbow to knock the magazine into my trash can, I give myself definitive proof that I have a giant case of the warm fuzzies for Sumner.
Great. A crush on my husband is the absolute last thing I need.
“How did you hurt your wrist?” I ask, sounding hoarse.
“I sprained it on my teammate’s face.”
“Oh my God. Is he okay?”
“Yeah.” He looks genuinely perplexed. “Why?”
Hockey players. I swear to God. “You must have hit him pretty hard if you sprained your wrist punching him.”
“I apologized afterward.” Sumner rolls a shoulder. “I haven’t been in a great mood lately.”
“Oh? Why?”
SUMNER
Why? she asks me.
Britta wants to know why I’ve been in a dark mood while she’s standing there in a criminally short dress and cowboy boots. How is everything in the world not canceled right now? Are people still traveling, going to work, and eating in restaurants when my wife looks this hot?
It has always been hard to be around her without making my feelings obvious.
But being away from her has been even worse.
It’s a vicious paradox that has literally gotten me injured. Inside and out.
I missed the sight of her so fucking badly today that I came here as soon as I dropped off my bag at the house and rushed through a shower. Now all I see are surfaces. Places where I could set her ass down, kneel in front of her, and get my tongue between those thighs.
I’m obsessed with eating her out. And I’ve never even gotten the opportunity.
Yet I’ve thought about it day and night for the last two months. Spreading her legs open and spitting on it, rubbing my face against all that softness, and gobbling her up like dessert. I swear to God, I wouldn’t even ask to fuck her. I wouldn’t dare be that greedy. I could die happy if she just let me kiss and lap at her cunt while she squirms around and pulls my hair.
“Sumner?” she asks, glancing back at me. “Your bad mood.”
“Oh, right.” Can you not see that I’m starving to death for you? Can’t you tell I missed you so horribly that my family couldn’t even make me smile? That might be a little too heavy for our first face-to-face conversation in two months, so I opt for a different truth. “I guess I’m worried that we’ve gone through all of this for my green card, and I won’t get called up to the pros. I know I’m only twenty-seven, but there’s always this feeling like . . . I don’t know. Time is running out.”