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)
I comply, spreading the pre-come down my shaft. My balls are aching. My cock is throbbing. My brain is demanding. I can barely take this anymore and my fist flies faster, harder, sliding down my length until my hips are punching up.
Alone in a hotel room at two in the morning in Toronto, I fuck my hand until I spill all over my palm, picturing all of the things I want to do to the woman in my home who drives me wild.
The woman who seems just as surprised as I am since she says, “I didn’t plan that. But I couldn’t resist you.”
“Welcome to the club,” I say. “We have jackets.”
33
FIRST-DEGREE SEX
Leighton
The hiss of the espresso machine mingles with a show-stopping number on the High Kick Coffee sound system, nearly drowning out the sounds of my thoughts on Tuesday morning.
They’ve been chasing me all morning—the did you really do that?—along with the realization that not only did I do that, but I planned that.
When I really should be planning how to both budget for the rent increase at Hush Hush and to grow my business. Blowing out a frustrated breath, I adjust my camera, then return to my job for today—capturing the warm morning light on a matcha latte and a plate of seven-layer bars for the shop’s social media.
Taking photos grounds me when my thoughts are chaotic.
And today, that chaos is named Miles. Somehow, I thought that moment when he put me up against the wall before he caught his flight was a one-time thing. A get it out of our system moment of weakness. Toe-curling, knee-buckling weakness. But something that wouldn’t happen again.
Last night though? There was no fuck it to last night. That was pure, premeditated, first-degree sex, when I should have been, I don’t know, devising a plan for the studio. Or even sleeping.
But as I fiddle with the lens, I’m not thinking about numbers or budgets. I’m replaying the way I felt last night giving Miles what he wanted—me. I’m not even sure what I’m shooting anymore.
I lower the camera so I can refocus. And soon, the grandmother of the man I’ve been fantasizing about is staring at me inquisitively from across the counter.
“Where did you just drift off to?” Birdie asks as she measures oat milk for a latte, her purple feather boa flung jauntily around her neck.
I blink. “You could tell?”
She smirks. “Considering you’ve been standing there holding the camera without taking a single picture for the last minute? I had a hunch.”
Busted.
Birdie sets the milk down, resting her hands on the counter as she studies me. “What’s going on, Leighton?”
I can’t exactly tell her the truth: Oh, nothing much, just replaying the steamy details of what your grandson and I did last night. Instead, Birdie takes the reins as she gestures to one of her employees and says, “I’m going to need you to handle the next few orders.” She grabs a slice of coconut cake and two forks, along with a cup of tea, then slips around the counter and leads me to a free table. I suppose I do need a break.
“Romance is best discussed over cake and tea,” she declares.
I laugh, following her lead. “So we’re discussing romance now?”
“Please. You’ve been floaty all day. Clearly, love is on your mind.” She slides the tea and cake in front of me.
Birdie’s perceptiveness is both a blessing and a curse. I feel safe with her, but I’m not ready to spill every detail about what happened with Miles. She’s not only his grandmother—she’s also my client.
“Floaty, huh?” I say, deflecting.
“Don’t even try it. Talk to me,” she says, cutting into the cake and taking a bite.
I busy myself, fiddling with the napkin on the table, trying to decide how much to share. Briefly, I consider steering the conversation to business instead. Birdie is a businesswoman after all. I could ask her advice on the rent increase. But I don’t want to look like I’m angling for more work from her. And, honestly, maybe I need to deal with what’s front and center on my mind first. “There’s…someone. But it’s complicated.”
Her eyes light up. “Oh, I love complicated. Who is he? Anyone I know?” she asks so innocently.
I give it back to her in the same way. “Maybe a little.”
“And you like him?”
I hesitate for a moment, then nod. “I do.”
A grin spreads across her wise, weathered face. “I bet he feels the same.”
“He does,” I admit, warmth spreading through me at the thought.
She takes another bite, then sets down her fork with a clink against the porcelain. “So what are you going to do about all of these complications? Because, honey, complications is just another word for stuff you’re not ready to deal with.”
“Why don’t you tell me how you really feel?”