Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 77775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Holy shit.
Did he drink the entire bottle all by himself?
His shirt is tucked in and I’m itching to clutch onto it, jerking it out from his pants so I can slide my fingers along his bare skin like I did last night. God, he’d felt so soft and smooth. I’d wanted to do more than touch. I wanted to run my tongue along his ribs, dip it into his belly button, and then tease his nipples.
Staying away from him is impossible.
Tate swirls around and squeaks out in surprise upon seeing me. Then he grins happily, eyes shining with appreciation.
For me?
If only he could see what lies beyond the mask.
A monster who couldn’t save his own mother.
A haunted ghost of a man who’s afraid to leave the safety of his home.
“Smells really good,” I grunt out, voice low and gravelly. “Violet’s not cooking?”
He sips his wine and then shakes his head. “Nope. I gave her the night off. She brought Wyatt some leftovers. It’s just the two of us tonight.”
Just the two of us.
“What are you making?” I inch toward him, thankful for the excuse to get near. “Soup?”
“Zuppa Toscana copycat recipe. A lady at one of my jobs made it and passed on the recipe to everyone. It’s the only thing I can cook that I’ve memorized.”
He polishes off the other glass of wine and then goes back to stirring. The magnetism of him has me drifting closer and closer until my body brushes against his from behind. He doesn’t stiffen but instead leans back against my chest. Warmth spreads from where our bodies touch. I can feel my dick thickening and I’m helpless to stop it.
“Someone’s excited for soup,” he teases and then lets out a slightly drunken giggle.
I want to wrap my arms around him and bury my nose in his hair. I’d love nothing more than to let my hands roam all over his tight body, exploring new places that’ll make him whimper and moan.
Fuck.
“Very excited,” Tate says, pushing his ass against my erection. “Who knew you were such a fan of soup?”
I chuff out a laugh. “It’s definitely the soup that does it for me.”
He turns off the eye on the stove before turning around to face me. The wine glass in his hand is empty and he blindly attempts to place it on the counter. My fingers wrap around his so he doesn’t crash it on the countertop and ruin this moment with broken glass.
I need this moment.
I need him.
I gently guide his hand down to the countertop and urge his fingers loose. Now that we’re standing so close and looking at each other, I don’t know what to do. What’s allowed? I can’t kiss him. He’ll see my hideous fucking face.
His palms tentatively touch my pectoral muscles over my hoodie. He squeezes them and laughs. I feel my lips curling into a satisfied smirk.
“You’re so ripped,” he says dreamily. “I bet your ass looks like it was carved from marble.”
Actually, it’s scarred and grotesque.
“Hmph.”
“You do that a lot.” He lifts a hand and boops my nose over my mask. Literally makes the booping sound and everything. “You grunt and grumble when you don’t like what I have to say or when you don’t want to answer a question.”
I shrug, my heart rate picking up when his hand dances along the column of my throat. “You see me as something I’m not. You haven’t seen all of me, Tate.”
Great.
Kill the mood, asshole.
Tate’s lip juts out, pouty and adorable. I want to bite it. Of course I fucking can’t.
“I’ve seen enough,” he argues, scrunching his nose. “Enough to know I’m really liking the guy hiding beneath the mask.”
So he says.
I know better.
I still have nightmares of my reflection after Mom died. No matter how hard I try to forget the person staring back at me, I can’t. It forever haunts me.
“I like touching you.” He grins beautifully at me. “Do you like touching me?”
Fuck.
Why is he so irresistible?
He makes it insanely impossible to stay away.
“You’re drunk,” I state, scowling, though he can’t see.
His eyes roll and he playfully smacks my stomach. “Tipsy. It’s called liquid courage.”
“What do you need courage for?” My rough voice is barely audible as my mind zings with possibilities.
“I wanted to do something nice for you, but I didn’t want you to hate it.”
He cooked for me to do something nice. My chest tightens with an unfamiliar emotion.
“Why?” I growl, hating how grumpy I sound.
His eyes drop to my chest and he shrugs. “I just wanted to show my appreciation.”
I’m already missing his adoring gaze, which explains why I reach up and hook a finger under his chin. I tilt his head up so I can admire all the lovely things about him, starting with his unsure expression.
“This is very nice. Thank you.”