Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 99981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
I follow him with my eyes the whole way, wondering how things could have changed this much in this amount of time.
After donning his jacket again, he takes my hand, helps me from the booth, and doesn’t let go as we walk to the door.
I’m so lost in my butterflies, I don’t even bother asking where we’re going.
Jackson Square is nearly deserted as we stroll through the park and stop by an artist right in front of Saint Louis Cathedral. In the coming weeks, Carnival and Mardi Gras will take over, but for now, it’s relatively peaceful.
We’re still holding hands.
I haven’t uttered a word since we left the restaurant, nervous that my normal smartass chatter will ruin the mood.
Trent hasn’t spoken either, but he doesn’t seem nearly as anxious as me.
He holds up a finger to ask if I can hang out for a minute, and when I nod, he lets go of my hand.
I’m immediately disappointed in myself for not being argumentative.
Nevertheless, I wait silently as he goes up to the artist and asks him a question I can’t hear. There’s an exchange, the artist nods, and Trent comes back to me.
“Come on,” he says. “Come over here.”
I do as he says, but not without some questions. The fact that he arranged whatever this is without me is a red flag.
The artist is rearranging his display and getting out a new canvas, and before I know it, Trent is pushing me down onto a little red stool.
I shake my head and try to stand up, but he nods and holds me down.
“Greer, this is Ben. And he’s going to paint you.”
“Me? Why? Why not you?”
“Because.”
“No, no, I think I’m good. I really have one of those faces that’s better in real life than in a still shot.”
Ben the artist laughs, and Trent smiles, ushering me back into the seat I’ve just vacated.
“Just enjoy it,” he coaches. “Ben is a professional.”
Ben nods, and other than telling them both to fuck off, I’m pretty sure I’ve run out of options.
Nervous and twitchy, I keep my seat and try to remember to breathe as Ben gets to work.
Trent doesn’t stop smiling the entire time. But while Ben is watching me, and Trent is watching Ben, I’m watching Trent. His eyes are heated and appreciative, and my stomach turns over on itself.
Thirty minutes pass, and aside from Ben’s painting, the only thing that’s changed is how much sexual tension is in the air.
I am a live wire and Trent is water, and I’m afraid when we touch again, we just might explode.
Trent pays Ben and takes the painting before grabbing my hand with his free one and leading us back to our apartment building.
I don’t think I’ve ever been this quiet in my entire life.
Trent leads us both to his door and stops in front of it, still holding on to my hand.
My heart gallops like a Thoroughbred on the racetrack.
Time seems to stand still as he sets down the painting, turns my back to his door, and presses me up against it. My breasts heave so hard in my dress, they come into my line of sight with every inhale.
His body is still in motion—which is good since I’m a statue—and he doesn’t stop until we’re pressed together from chest to hips. I’m an absolute wreck, but I’m also ecstatic, so I don’t protest as his lips touch mine.
The contact is gentle at first, just a whisper of a kiss that I feel all the way from my vagina to my toes.
He hovers there, holding the light contact until I can’t take it anymore.
My throat feels dry, my chest feels like it’s going to explode, and my stomach has a low, burning ache I don’t think will ever go away.
Faced with a deteriorating body, I work on fixing the only thing I can, and I lick my lips to moisten my mouth.
Of course, that means I don’t just lick my lips. His are there too, pressed to mine, and the feel of running my tongue along the pair of them sends us into a frenzy.
I feel a tug on my hair as he digs a hand into it and pulls me closer, melding our bodies in such a way that I know I turn him on. His dick is hard and heavy, and dear God, being up against it like this is so much better than dreaming about it.
His tongue pushes into my mouth, curling around the tip of mine and exploring like Lewis and fucking Clark.
It’s apt, seeing as we’re in Louisiana, and my eyes start to roll back in my head.
A week ago, we were enemies. And now, we’re this. We’re speeding past friendship in a rocket designed to break the sound barrier, and it’s all I can do to keep my footing.