Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
“So, sliding scale of hotness for fucking you,” I muse, as I run the soap over my chest one more time while he rinses his hair. “I’m going with ultra-hot.”
He just smiles, a little drowsily. “Sounds about right.”
I turn off the shower, and when we’ve dried off, I usher him back to my bed, pull up the comforter, and glance at the clock. It’s past midnight, and I’m too blissed out to do much more than yawn and plant a kiss on his shoulder.
“Hey, Banks,” I murmur.
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
He tenses, and I run a hand down his arm. “Why is there a fifty percent chance of two people in any group of twenty-three having the same birthday?”
“You really want me to answer that now, St. James?”
“Mmm. I do,” I murmur. “I think it might help me sleep.”
“You sarcastic fucker.”
I drag him close, kiss the back of his neck and drift off.
25
GOOD MORNING TO ME
THURSDAY
ASHER
As the light streaks through the window in the morning, I’m still basking in the after-effects. My helpful brain conveniently replays the reel of the night before—Mark’s throaty groans, the heat of his body, the smell of his skin. A potent mix of chlorine, of all things, and his endless desire.
Mine too.
In fact, I’d like to go again right now.
I flip over in bed, all ready to tug that warm body against mine, when I’m met by . . . nothing.
Cool sheets.
A silent room.
And an empty bed.
I rub my eyes and push up, hunting for him. His glasses aren’t on the nightstand. His phone is gone.
I listen for noise. The shower maybe? The hiss of the coffee pot?
But the guest house is eerily still.
Did he return to his room after we conked out post-shower? My chest tightens. Swinging my legs out of bed, I pad to the bathroom, take care of business, and brush my teeth.
Then I wander past his room to sneak a peek, but the door’s cracked open only an inch. I can’t see in.
But why do I care if he crashed in his room?
Because . . . I do. I just do.
My thumping heart needs to settle down, though. It’s only sex.
So what if he took off after he got off? I’ve been there, done that. Hell, it’s pretty much been my MO for the last decade. And it ought to be de rigueur for this tryst that’s ending this weekend.
I head to my bedroom when the main door creaks open.
A shirtless Mark strolls in, hair a mess, glasses on. His eyes sail down my body, stopping point-blank on my dick.
“Good morning to me,” he says, with an appreciative hum.
And my dick shows off how much I like Mark Banks by getting harder. Fucking exhibitionist.
Good thing he’s checking out my junk, since the smile I’m wearing is too much. Don’t entirely want him to know I was stupidly worried he took off for his own room late last night. “But mornings are better in bed,” I say casually as I turn into my room.
He’d better follow me.
I flop down on the bed. Waiting.
When he turns into my room, he stops in the doorway, dips his head. Mark looks a little shy, and a lot happy.
My chest warms. Hmm. Must be from the sunlight.
Leaning against the doorjamb, he scratches his jaw. “Since my parents arrive later this morning, I was busy hiding the casserole dishes,” he says, pointing at the sprawling house. “Like I told Hannah I would.”
“Are they stashed anywhere I should know about? Under the couch cushions? Just so I don’t sit on one.”
A smile curves his lips. “No. I hid them in the pool shed.”
“Explain.”
“Mom loves to clean too. And vacuum. So if I hid them in a linen closet or the pantry in the house, she’d find them. She’ll open all the cupboards and doors, so I had to put them in the one spot she wouldn’t look. With the pool chemicals.”
“Your brain is a very busy place,” I say.
“And then I spotted a pelican. I took a picture of it and sent it to Bridget to show Rosie. She likes animals. My daughter, that is,” he says, and for the first time ever, Mark sounds like he’s rambling. Mark is not a rambler.
“That’s adorable,” I say, because sending bird pics to his kid is cute. But I don’t think he’s telling me about his kid so I’ll think he’s a good dad.
He’s waiting for me to make the next move.
Ah, hell.
That’s why he’s shy right now. He’s got that morning-after was-it-good-for-you look in his eyes.
And I’ve got the answer to soothe his worries. That’s a heady feeling, too—knowing you can give someone what he needs. “Are you just going to stand there looking incomparably sexy in those basketball shorts and nothing else? Or are you going to get your fine ass back in bed? No one expects to see us for a while. After all, I have an excellent track record for not showing my fabulous face till brunch. And everyone probably assumes you’re off solving algebraic equations in that pretty head of yours while jogging ten miles on Key Biscayne.”