Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
“You’re welcome,” I say, then glance down at the food. “Oh! I should have added—who’s an excellent chef too.”
“A hot chef,” he says.
“A hot tattooed chef,” I add, my gaze drifting over the ink on his forearm as we resume eating.
“You like my ink, Leighton?” he asks, like he’s glad I do.
“It’s hot. What’s this one for?” I ask, tracing the arrow tattoo that runs along his arm.
“Focus,” he says. “I got it when I went to college. It was my reminder to stay on track.”
“Well, two degrees and hockey—I’d say it worked.”
“A little,” he deadpans.
My attention shifts to a colorful tattoo on his bicep, a tree with bright fall leaves. “And this?”
“Family tree,” he says with a sweet smile. “For my mom, Birdie, Tyler, and Charlie.”
Not his dad. He doesn’t have to say it; I get it. My life’s the same.
“I love it,” I say, glancing back at the plate in front of me. “And I love your cooking.”
“I told you I’d cook for you,” he says with a small, self-satisfied smile.
I flash back to last night, to the groceries he sent here with that cocky note: For when I cook for you.
“You were so presumptuous,” I say, raising an eyebrow. But inside, I keep wondering—how many more times would he like to cook for me?
“I thought you said I was cocky,” he counters, grinning as he lifts his coffee mug.
“Same thing,” I reply, but my mind circles back to that word again. Here.
“Miles,” I say, swallowing down the nerves. This isn’t easy, but it needs to be said. “What are we doing?”
He sets his mug down, his eyes locking on mine. “I don’t know. But I don’t want to stop.” His voice is full of emotion, mostly hope and longing.
Relief washes over me, followed by something brighter, sharper. “I don’t either,” I say, and it’s hard being vulnerable. Truly hard, but how could I be anything else with him when he lays himself bare?
He leans forward, resting his forehead against mine briefly before he pulls back. “Then don’t go home tonight.”
I laugh softly. “You’ve still got the dogs. You need my help, of course.”
“Exactly. I have them till Sunday night. Stay and help me with them,” he says, his grin turning wicked. His eyes make it clear we both know that’s not why he wants me to stay.
I hesitate for a moment, wondering what happens after a few more days. Questions about the future circle me, but they always do. The future is my albatross, so I bat them aside. I narrow in on the present, weighing the practical risks instead. But really, there aren’t many. Who would know the difference? No one. No one has to know where I stay.
“Yes,” I say, my voice firm. “On one condition.”
He arches a brow. “I give you countless orgasms?”
“That’s a given,” I shoot back. “But I’m walking the dogs, and I’m cleaning. You’re not getting in my way.”
“Who’s bossy now?” he teases, his eyes sparkling.
“Let me take care of something for once,” I say, softer this time.
His grin fades into something gentler, and he dips his head to kiss me. “You’re making this hard for me.”
Well, that I can’t resist. I slide a hand over his lounge pants. And hello! He’s at half-mast. “I see I am.”
A rumble-growl crosses his lips. “I’ll walk the dogs with you.”
I squeeze his growing erection, then stand my ground. “But I’m cleaning.”
With a happy sigh, he relents. “Fine.”
“Also, thanks for breakfast,” I say as I slide to my knees, tug on the waistband of his lounge pants, then lick my lips.
His mouth curves up, and he pushes off the stool in seconds flat. “I bet you’d like me to fuck your throat, Shutterbug.”
He knows me too well. I want to be manhandled. I want to be pushed around. “Only if you pull on my hair while you do it,” I say, giving it right back to him.
His eyes darken to flames. I swear I can see lust radiating off his whole body, like an electrical charge. “You and your dealmaking.”
“You love my dealmaking.”
He pauses for a weighty beat, holding my gaze, then says, “I really fucking do.”
It feels like he’s talking about more than a blow job, but for now I focus on the task at hand. Or mouth, really.
I peel down his boxer briefs, his hard cock showing off how ready he is. I kiss the tip, lightly, feather soft.
Then I open wide, grab his hip, and urge him to fuck my throat. Miles doesn’t hesitate. He threads one hand through my hair near my temple, yanking and tugging while filling my mouth.
Exactly how I want him to.
He’s in control, but really, when I play with his balls, drag my nails down his thighs, and squeeze his ass, I’m pretty sure I’m the one in charge.